


Halfway House

by BelleGeorgia



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Arguing, Boys Kissing, Canon Divergence, Falling In Love, Jealousy, M/M, Muggle Fight Club, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Harry Potter, Pining, Slow Burn, Summer Romance, Underage Drinking, Unwanted Roomate, Violence, draco charms the dursleys, harry is as baffled as we are, kind of, swearing teenagers, the summer after 6th year, threat of impending doom
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-30
Updated: 2019-04-11
Packaged: 2019-07-04 09:20:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 68,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15838335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BelleGeorgia/pseuds/BelleGeorgia
Summary: One month. It really isn’t that long, considering the sixteen years Harry has had to survive at the Dursleys thus far. A singular speck of a month. A mere thirty-one days until Harry turns seventeen and can pack up his meagre belongings and get as far away from this house as is humanly possible.The promise of a new friend seems like the perfect timing to pass the summer days quickly.Until Draco Malfoy turns up.





	1. Freckles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge, massive love and thanks to Ettie, whom I adore, and is the sole reason this story exists. Your endless patience, commitment and enthusiasm has made this vague idea of mine come to light. You are a star and a gem and all things shiny. ILY.

* * *

 

One month. Un mes. Un mois. Ein monat.

One month, that’s all. That’s doable. It’s fine, really it is.

Harry repeats this mantra in his head as he watches his breath fog up a small patch on his bedroom window. The sun is blinding, piercing his eyes and heating up the skin of his forehead as it rests against the cool glass.

One month. It really isn’t that long, considering the sixteen years he has had to survive at the Dursleys thus far. A singular speck of a month. A mere thirty-one days until Harry turns seventeen and can pack up his meagre belongings and get as far away from this house as is humanly possible.

Harry is itching to start the hunt for the Horcruxes, can feel the uncomfortable tick under his skin pricking alongside an ever-present irritation that won’t seem to cease. Every loud noise, every snide remark from his guardians, every second of deafening silence when they leave him alone makes Harry’s eye twitch.

He knows, logically, that this is probably due to the fact he hasn’t slept properly in weeks. Every time he closes his eyes he sees Dumbledore’s fragile body plummeting over the side of the astronomy tower. Not a particularly peaceful image, anyone could agree.

Sometimes it isn’t Dumbledore’s stricken face he sees. Sometimes it’s Snape’s blank, hooded eyes as he casts the unforgivable. Sometimes it’s Malfoy’s tear-streaked pale face, grey eyes wide and full of terror. Those two particular images fill Harry with such a suffocating rage that all he can do is lie in bed and _vibrate_ , muscles tense and breath filtering the air of his tiny room with quick short pants.

One month. One month, _onemonthonemonthonemonth._

One month has never felt so disgustingly far away.

Harry reaches up with his right hand and lazily presses two dots on the fogged glass next to his cheek. Underneath he swipes a long curved smile, a crude contrast to his dark mood.

A car pulls up in the driveway, Harry’s eyes focusing past the drawing to the three figures heaving themselves out of the car and making their way to the front door. Harry watches as they disappear inside, the door slamming closed making him flinch even though he was expecting it.

“Fuck this,” Harry mutters to himself, unsticking his face from the glass and bolting from his room. He darts down the stairs, ignoring his aunts disapproving huff and flying out of the front door before she has time to draw another breath.

 

* * *

 

Harry ends up in the park a short walk away, pushing open the gate and heading for the swings on the other side of the play area. It’s empty, which is not unusual due to the fact that most of the climbing apparatus were destroyed by Dudley and his gang years ago, the council not bothering to fix them up when a newer, pristine park was installed half a mile away.

Harry could walk there, of course, but he prefers the peace of the abandoned play area over the sound of children laughing while their parents look on with doting smiles.

God how morbid, Harry thinks with a snort, perching down on one of the only two swings that are still in working order. Feet planted on the ground, Harry pushes himself back and forth as he glances around the park.

Memories of years finding refuge in this park come to the forefront of Harry’s mind, making him cringe a little. The last time he was here he had tried to start a fight with Dudley and his crew, which had been regrettably interrupted by dementors. Harry thinks he still deserves a fight, to be honest. It’s the least Dudley could do, considering.

Harry lets out a puff of frustrated air, eyes drawn down to his right leg which is bouncing rapidly in agitation. He places his hand on his knee, trying to smooth out the trembles of his thigh as he gnaws at his bottom lip.

A couple of dementors would be a welcome relief right now, he thinks. This thought is accompanied by a flash of green light and a sharp ache of betrayal and he twitches, squeezing his eyes shut to dispel the memory.

Maybe not then, actually.

“You’re one of the Dursley boys, right?”

Harry jerks, blinking his eyes open and turning his head to the right to spot a boy about his age sitting on the swing next to him. He looks taller than Harry, which is no great feat to be honest, with long lanky limbs and a mess of mousy brown curls framing warm brown eyes. He has a sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of his nose, slightly sunburnt cheeks above a healthy tan. The boy stares at him, head cocked curiously with an expectant look on his face.

Harry, a bit unnerved at not noticing his presence sooner, replays the question in his mind before answering with a short, “No.” He turns away.

The boy digs his heels into the dusty ground beneath him, swinging slightly. “But you live-?”

“Yeah,” Harry interrupts, feeling a familiar lick of irritation.

There’s a pause where Harry can feel the boy’s eyes flickering over his profile. He ignores it.

“Well, it’s probably a good thing you're not related, considering-”

“He’s my cousin,” Harry says bluntly, wishing the stranger would bugger off and absently wondering why Harry was engaging him in the first place.

“Well, you don’t look anything like him,” comes a low retort and Harry’s eyes flick back to the other boy for a second.

“Thanks,” Harry snorts.

“You're welcome.” The boy offers a small smile, glancing over his left shoulder for a moment as if hearing a noise behind him. Harry spots a dark purple bruise under his right eye, an ugly yellow tinge melting down onto his sharp cheekbone.

“I used to go to school with him. At St. Grogory’s? He was a right prick, to be honest, always picking on-”

“Yeah, I know, I was there,” Harry interrupts shortly, turning away once again.

“You were?” The boy sounds surprised and Harry can almost resist rolling his eyes.

“I was usually the one he was picking on.”

The boy squints at him. “Were you a year or two below?”

“Nope.” Harry’s tone is clipped, tempted to simply stand up and walk away.

“I don’t remember you.”

Harry glances over, one side of his mouth twitching up humorlessly before turning back to study the faded blue seesaw. He doesn’t explain that he’s hardly surprised himself with that comment, considering he spent the majority of his time at primary school hiding up trees and behind desks. But still. Considering there were only about thirty children in their class, for seven years…

Harry conveniently doesn’t entertain the thought that _he_ doesn’t remember this boy either. But Harry has never been very good with faces. Unless they’re trying to kill him, he supposes.

After a moment of silence, the boy kicks at the ground and starts swinging back and forth in a lazy manner. The chains attached to the metal bar above him squeak with every forward swing, making Harry’s jaw twitch in annoyance.

“What happened to your eye?” Harry asks flippantly, hoping to cause the boy some sort of discomfort that would make him leave.

“Got into a fight,” comes the easy reply.

Harry turns his head to watch the boy’s retreating back suspend in the air for half a second before he swings back down. Harry feels the disturbed air brush against his face.

“With who?”

“Some guy.”

“Did you win?”

The boy chuckles ruefully. “No.”

“Do you like fighting?” Harry asks, eyeing him. The boy doesn’t reply straight away, but skids his feet against the ground until his seat is still once more. He gives Harry a considering look before smirking slightly.

“Yeah.”

“Want to have a fight?” Harry asks before his brain even registers the question, and his heart thuds in anticipation as the boy turns to face him fully with raised eyebrows.

Harry stops himself from taking the offer back and forces himself to stare at the other boy with a bland expression.

Then, to his surprise, the boy grins.

“Alright.”

 

* * *

 

“What the hell happened to you, boy?”

Harry pauses in his rummaging inside the freezer, glancing up into his uncles glaring face. Harry blinks slowly up at him in a way he knows irritates the man to no end, before going back to his task and grabbing the ice tray from the top shelf.

“That better be from a car, I will _not_ have you showing me up by fighting like a common mongrel in the streets!”

Harry gives the ice tray in his hands a vaguely offended look, honestly surprised to find himself surprised that his uncle would rather him get hit by a _car_ than cause some sort of scene. He nudges the freezer door shut with one hip and grabs a tea towel from the unit.

Before he can drop any ice onto it, the material is swiped out of his hand by fat fingers.

“You will answer me, boy! And you’re not getting your filthy blood on our good towels!”

Harry sighs deeply, turning to face Vernon fully, who blanches a little at his face.

Curious to see the full extent of damage, having come straight into the kitchen when he arrived home to find something cold to press against his throbbing bottom lip, Harry gives his uncle a hooded look.

“It’s hardly a ‘good towel’, it’s got chocolate stains all over it from Dudley this morning.”

Vernon’s face goes a horrid shade of purple as he splutters in indignation. “You watch yourself, lad, or you’ll be getting a matching set of black eyes, you mark my words!”  

Unfazed, Harry nods indulgently back at the threat just as the front door slams shut from down the hall. Vernon turns towards the sound and Harry uses the distraction to snatch the towel out of his meaty grip and dart from the room.

“Potter!”

Harry ignores the shout, knowing his uncle can hardly ever be bothered to chase him up the stairs these days, and passes Dudley in the hallway. His cousin stops and stares at him with wide eyes, an oddly betrayed look passing his face as if Harry has caused some sort of deep disloyalty by getting himself beaten up by someone other than himself.

Harry flashes him a large grin, causing the huge boy to take an unnerved step backwards, and watches Harry run up the stairs until out of sight.

Harry’s first stop is the bathroom where he locks himself in and turns on the cold tap, inspecting his face in the mirror above the sink. He raises his eyebrows, causing an ache under the skin of his left temple. There isn’t a bruise there, yet, but the skin is red and slightly raised and tomorrow Harry is certain it will be a nice deep purple to accompany the one under his fat bottom lip.

There’s a crust of dried blood around one nostril and Harry wets some loo roll and dabs it away before running his cracked knuckles under the cool spray. He winces at the sharp sting before it eases, washing his hands thoroughly.

Glancing back up in the mirror, Harry shoots himself a large grin, smiling even wider when he notices the smear of blood over his teeth. He lets out an odd huff of laughter, using a wet finger to slide the blood across his teeth, staining the white a diluted pink.

Harry washes his mouth out, splashes cold water across his face and heads into his room. Climbing on top of the covers, face and hands throbbing in time with his steady heartbeat, Harry gloriously thinks about nothing.

And for the first time in weeks, _years_ really, he sleeps undisturbed.

 

* * *

 

“Want a lick?”

Harry chokes on a mouthful of vanilla ice cream, turning raised eyebrows at his companion. He stares at Lucas’ curious gaze before lowering his eyes to the offered cone.

“Er-no. I’m good. Thanks,” Harry mutters, fighting an embarrassed flush.

Lucas shrugs and pulls his own minty ice cream back towards his face, slurping up a generous chunk from the top. Harry tears his eyes away.

The two of them have met up in the park every day for the past week, enjoying a small tussle before laying side by side on the yellowing grass and nattering about nothing of great importance.

They hardly come to hard blows anymore, not after their third ‘fight’ when Harry hadn’t been quick enough to block a particularly nasty right hook to the temple and the world had gone black for a few seconds. When he had blinked his eyes open once more, Lucas had been kneeling over his prone body on the dusty ground with a pale, stricken look on his face and had muttered, “Yeah, I think that’s enough now.”

Harry had agreed to a degree. Every time he had arrived home in the late evening, more bruised and bloody than when he had left that morning, the Dursleys had given him nasty suspicious looks and Harry was pretty sure Dudley’s was starting to get mixed with a hint of _concern._

So, the boys decided to let their skin heal for a few days and mutually agreed that wrestling in the dirt like a couple of schoolboys was the more respectable option. They ended up winded more from laughing than from a blow to the stomach.   

Turns out, Lucas _does_ remember Harry from primary school now that they’ve spent a brief amount of time reminiscing. He had gasped aloud when he had remembered the small dark-haired boy from his class, quiet and usually alone.

He had then gone on for almost fifteen minutes about how he couldn’t believe he hadn’t made the connection before.

Harry, possessing very little memories of his life before Hogwarts due to self-preservation, decided to stay quiet about the fact he still doesn’t remember Lucas. He suspects the other boy knows this, but he doesn’t comment thankfully.

“I still can’t believe your uncle told everyone you had been sent to St Brutus’,” Lucas snorts suddenly, stretching his legs out in front of him on the grass. “My dad’s-friend’s-son got sent there and _he_ tried to stab someone with a compass once.”

Harry takes a bite out of his cone. “How much damage could a compass really do, though? I mean they’re not particularly long-“

“In the eye.”

Harry splutters. “Jesus!” Lucas grins at him.

“Imagine going to school surrounded by people like _that_ ,” Lucas scoffs.

A sharp, horrible image fills Harry’s mind: his shaking wand lowering as he stares down in terror at blood-splattered bathroom tiles and an unnervingly slack, pale face haloed by a growing red puddle staining white-blonde hair. Harry swallows, turning his eyes down to his lap. “Yeah. Imagine.”

“I can’t wait to finish school,” Lucas sighs, popping the rest of his cone into his mouth. “One more year and then: _freedom!”_

Harry offers a strained smile, looking down at the rest of his ice cream with a sudden feeling of nausea.

“Don’t you?” Lucas pries after a moment of silence.

“Oh. Yeah, for sure,” Harry lies, wishing his life was so simple that he could be returning to finish his last year at school before heading off to Auror training. It’s not so simple though and some higher power clearly hates Harry with a deep passion, so that’s that.

Lucas eyes Harry’s unfinished dessert with a rather astonishing lack of subtlety and Harry passes it over with a small smile.

Lucas grins pearly whites and takes a large bite with relish. “Tell me more about your awful chemistry teacher.”

Harry cringes, wishing he had never brought up Snape the day before. It _hurts_ , thinking about him. Talking about him is a whole other ball game. Glancing down at his hands, Harry notices a drip of ice cream down the side of his index finger. He licks it away to stall a reply.

Harry looks back up to see Lucas turning his face away quickly with an odd pink tinge to his cheeks.

“There’s not much more to say. He’s a dick,” Harry says shortly.

“What’s Scotland like? I’ve never been.”

Harry shrugs, fingers twitching as an itch prickles under his skin. “It’s beautiful.”

“As beautiful as Dudley?” Lucas asks, smirking.

Harry throws him a disgusted look. Lucas laughs, eyes bright, shoving the rest of Harry’s ice cream in his mouth.

“Impossible,” Harry grins.

“I don’t know how you can stand living under the same roof as him,” Lucas murmurs, mouth full. He shoots Harry a mischievous look. “I must applaud your self-control, being around such a specimen of beauty and-“

Harry launches himself at him, yelling at him to ‘Shut _up_ , _oh my god_!’ Lucas roars with laughter, blocking Harry’s half-hearted punches as they roll across the grass together in a tangled heap of flailing limbs.

 

* * *

 

Hours later, the sun setting and casting a warm glow on the pavement, Harry strolls back to Privet Drive. His jeans are grass stained and dirty, and he feels light but less achy than he would prefer. He wonders how well he will sleep tonight.

This week with Lucas has been a welcome distraction from the neverending turmoil in Harry’s mind. From the prickling need to _gogogo._ The other boy, obviously, must be more than aware of the frantic efforts of Harry to push and push away something dark and painful. How could you not, when faced with someone who would much rather throw punches than talk about anything substantial. Who takes hits with such pathetic desperation.

Harry appreciates the fact Lucas doesn’t ask questions. He just smiles a dimpled smile and swings at Harry, or locks an arm around his neck and throws him to the ground, his solid, slim body following a second later to pin Harry to the grass.

Harry doesn’t try to think too deeply on the time they spend together, seeing their scraps as another form of training. Being a good dueller is all well and good when you have a wand. Pain is all well and good until you can’t tolerate it anymore. If Harry just keeps pushing his body to the very limit, he may stand a chance at surviving what is to come.

With this thought in mind, Harry turns the corner to Privet Drive and pads up the street towards number four.

As he’s sliding his key into the lock, the door swings open suddenly and Uncle Vernon stands at the threshold with a murderous expression.

Harry sighs and lowers his hand, wondering what on earth he has done now to be assaulted with the red-faced fury. He’s not _that_ late back, it’s not even dark yet.

“Harry?”

Harry jerks at the familiar voice behind his uncle, twisting his body to try and see around the large frame blocking his view.

“Remus!” Harry grins, trying to push past Vernon who still stands there, shaking with rage. “What are you-“

Harry stops, noticing the grim expression on his former professor’s face. His stomach drops, heart in his throat and mind spinning as he thinks the worst.

The worst, however, can’t even compare to what he actually sees when another face appears behind Remus. Pale face scowling and full of disdain, upper lip curled in a sneer, Harry’s vision turns red.

It’s only Draco _fucking_ Malfoy.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be updated weekly.
> 
> Hopefully.
> 
> :)


	2. Temporary Death Eater Roommate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> love y'all & especially Ettie for all her help <3

* * *

 

The eye twitch is back, Harry thinks miserably as he takes off his glasses to press his fingertips into his eye sockets.

A couple of weeks ago, Harry could have safely said - and believed - that his life couldn’t have got any worse. Friends dying, a demented Dark Lord on the rise, a prophecy detailing his 50/50 chance of survival. And yet, lo and behold, he finds himself sitting next to Draco Malfoy on his aunt and uncle’s pristine cream sofa while the couple in question sit opposite on the other side of the room. The Dursleys are alternating glares between Harry, Malfoy, and Remus, who stands between them all as if expecting a fight to break out.

“I know this isn’t ideal,” Remus is saying with a sympathetic smile. “And I am well aware of the history between the two of you,” he gives Harry and Malfoy a pointed look. Malfoy snorts. “But, other than Hogwarts, this is the safest place for Draco to be right now.”

“Why can’t he be shipped off to Hogwarts then?” Harry demands, sliding his glasses back onto his face.

Malfoy turns to shoot him a look as if he’s stupid. “Why do you  _think,_ Potter? Or have you already forgotten the tiny event that happened at the end of term? You _were_ there, apparently.”

Harry feels his face heat up in anger. “I would hardly call it a ‘tiny event’, you tried to murder-“

“Let’s not get into that now, shall we?” Remus interrupts loudly, shooting Harry a disapproving look and tilting his head towards the Dursleys.

“What do I care if they know?” Harry barks, enraged. “He’s not staying here!”

“This is hardly my first choice of residence either, Potter! I would rather squat in in the Shrieking Shack than spend even one night in this muggle-“

“Why don’t you go and do that then-!“

“-Who are you calling a muggle-!?”

“-I would if it meant I wouldn’t _die immediately_ -!”

“-I am not having _two_ of your kind living under my roof-!”

“SILENCE!”

Everyone snaps their mouths closed and turns towards Remus, breathing heavily. The tired-looking man meets every eye in the room, one by one, with a scowl on his face until they all look away, silenced.

“Arguing isn’t going to change what has already been decided,” he states firmly.

“And who exactly has decided this? We certainly weren't invited to vote!” Vernon cries in outrage. “At least your blasted old headmaster could have had the decency to show up and talk this over with us himself!”

“Well, that’s not going to happen any time soon is it?” Harry spits out.

“Harry. Enough.” Remus fixes Harry a stern look, who deflates a bit under his gaze. Remus’ expression softens a bit and he takes a step closer to him. “I am sorry,” he begins quietly. “But this is isn’t up to you.”

“What a surprise,” Harry huffs a quiet humorless laugh, looking down at his hands twisted together in his lap.

Remus squeezes his shoulder with a warm hand for a moment and Harry has to fight the urge to shrug it off before suppressing the childish temptation and sending Remus a strained smile. The older man quirks his lips, guilt radiating from his eyes before turning back to face the room.

“Poor Potty,” Malfoy murmurs under his breath and Harry’s hands clench tighter together until his knuckles are white to stop himself from reaching across and punching him in his stupid blonde head.

“Now see here, this is  _my_ house-“ Vernon moves to stand, sensing the shift of defeat in the room.

“With all due respect, Mr Dursley, I am afraid this matter is also out of your hands,” Remus says calmly, impressively ignoring Vernon’s rapidly darkening face. “Due to the fact Draco has ‘gone missing’, so to speak, our enemies will be searching for him and there is a very high chance they could come looking here. However, the protection magic surrounding this house, and you in general, from Harry’s mother will only get stronger and ultimately impossible to penetrate with  _two_ young wizards living under this roof. You will be safer than you are now with Draco here, I assure you.”

Remus doesn’t look at Harry, who has to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from reacting to this blatant lie.

“I think my family and I would be safer if we get as far away from you lot as we can!” Vernon shouts.

“I'm afraid that isn’t true, Mr Dursley. Until Harry turns seventeen, you need him as much as he needs you to stay safe. And that is the main priority, wouldn’t you agree?”

Vernon’s moustache quivers and he looks at Petunia, who has a pinched expression like she’s just sucked on a lemon. She turns to give Harry a considering look, who stares blankly back at her. He doesn’t really care if they refuse, not that it would do much in retrospect. Wherever Malfoy ends up is no skin off his nose.

Petunia turns back towards her husband and inclines her head slightly. “Think of Dudders, darling,” she murmurs.

Vernon sinks back down into his seat and crosses his arms across his massive chest but doesn’t say anything else.

“Right,’ Remus claps his hands together once and turns to face Harry and Malfoy. “Now, I need to make this very clear: absolutely _no magic_. Harry, that’s a given of course as you are not yet seventeen, but Draco that means you too I’m afraid."

Harry glances at Malfoy, expecting him to protest but is surprised when the boy simply nods shortly in response.

Remus seems a bit taken aback by this reaction too, raising his eyebrows a little, and continues regardless as if he had rehearsed his response beforehand. “Due to the muggle area, it would be best to keep any chance of magical signatures being traced to a bare minimum.”

“I don’t appreciate being called a ‘muggle!’” Vernon speaks up, sitting forward with an angry expression.

“Why?” Malfoy asks curiously, turning to look at him for the first time all evening. “That is what you are?”

“How _dare-“_

“It means non-magical, Uncle Vernon,” Harry explains tiredly. “It isn't derogatory,” he finishes, the ‘unfortunately’ silent but heard by everyone in the room.

 

* * *

 

When Remus finally stands to take his leave, Harry’s eyes are burning with tiredness and his head is pounding. His aunt and uncle stormed off to bed an hour before, resigned to their extra charge and grumbling about it as they left the room without a passing ‘goodnight’. 

At some point in the evening, Dudley made an appearance, poking his head around the door of the living room with a curious expression. His face went a little pale at the sight of Remus and Malfoy, the latter in dark green robes. Petunia had darted at him, babbling in soothing tones about the ‘ _terrible situation they have been forced into’_ and _‘don’t worry, they can’t use magic to hurt us’_ and so on and so forth.

Dudley had simply given Malfoy a once-over, glanced at Harry with a small frown then had asked what had been on Harry’s mind all night.

“Where’s he gonna sleep?”

Everyone had turned to Vernon expectantly, while Harry had to stop himself from suggesting the cupboard with spiteful grandeur.

“Surely you have a guest room?” Malfoy had burst out after a moment of silence, as if he couldn’t hold in the question any longer.

“We  _did_ have a guest room,” Petunia had sniffed, giving Harry a glare as if it was his fault he existed. He would hardly have called Dudley’s second bedroom a ‘guest room’, full as it was of old broken toys and a lack of a bed. Harry still wondered where they had found the bed he sleeps in now, ‘found’ being the operative word.

As the Dursleys began a quiet debate amongst themselves, Remus had slowly turned to give Harry a small smile that was really more of a grimace. Harry had closed his eyes in dread, knowing what was about to come.

“I’m sure Draco would be fine sharing Harry’s room with him,” Remus interjected quietly.

Malfoy had spluttered and Harry was sure his face would be turning a deep shade of outraged red, but as Harry still hadn’t opened his eyes the imagine was internal.

Vernon then, conveniently, remembered there was an old air mattress in the attic somewhere and that had been that.

Now, with the three Dursley’s all tucked up in bed sound asleep - unlikely considering someone, probably Vernon, keeps pointedly slamming their bedroom closed every thirty seconds - Remus stretches and sends a warm smile down at the two boys still sat together on the couch.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” he says after a moment, eyes twinkling. “You’ll be fine, both of you. You are both very nearly adults, I trust you can behave as such.” Remus phrases this more as a question than a statement and Harry nods reluctantly while Malfoy ruins this with a childish mutter, _‘I_ am _an adult.’_ Harry scoffs, sending Remus a very _adult_ and  _civilised_ look.

Remus looks like he is seriously trying not to roll his eyes and claps them both on the shoulder, Malfoy flinching slightly as if he is contagious. “It’s only a few weeks, I am sure you will survive. Harry, walk me to the door?” Remus gives Harry a pointed look and he stands to follow the man out of the room.

At the front door, Remus turns and surprises Harry by giving him a strong embrace. He doesn’t say anything, but Harry appreciates the show of support and pats him on the back a bit awkwardly. When Remus finally let’s go, he pulls back a little to hold Harry at arm’s length, amber eyes flicking across his face.

“I’m sorry you have to stay here with them. If I could get you out, you know I would Harry. In a heartbeat.” Remus’s eyes are full of concern as they flick from Harry’s jaw to his temple, back to his eyes.

Harry frowns for a moment before clarity hits and he snorts a laugh that has a touch of hysteria in the sound. “No! No, this isn’t them. It’s… it’s complicated. But I'm fine. Really.”

Remus stares at him for a moment longer before - reluctantly - believing him and letting it go. He smiles a bit sadly, hands squeezing into Harry’s shoulders for a moment before he lets go.

“Stay safe,” he says and then he is gone.

 

* * *

 

Harry spits the last bit of toothpaste into the sink and wipes his mouth, glancing up at his reflection. He looks like shit. Dark rings under bloodshot eyes and yellowing tinges of fading bruises dotted around his face. Trust Remus to notice, while Harry hardly does these days. Werewolf vision and all that.

Harry turns off the tap and stretches, joints popping with satisfaction. He thinks of his day earlier, lazing in the sun and eating ice cream and scoffs. It seems like a lifetime ago. A Malfoy-free lifetime ago.

Harry stares at the door bracingly. Behave like an adult, Remus had said. Harry could do that. _Malfoy_ however.

It’s just a little over three weeks until Harry’s birthday, until he is well shot of the Dursleys and far away from damn Malfoys and their apparent change of heart.

Harry has no idea what Malfoy said to make the Order believe he is to be trusted, not with Mad-Eye and his gruff suspicion of everyone and everything, from Harry himself to Crookshanks. He suspects Remus had a say in swaying the other members, what with the odd sympathetic looks he kept throwing at Malfoy earlier instead of his usual carefully blank expression of hidden dislike.  

Harry doesn’t really care why Malfoy has finally decided to use his brain and walk away from his parent’s influence, all he knows is that he doesn’t trust him. For all he knows, this could all be an elaborate plan to murder Harry in his sleep.

Squaring his shoulders, Harry shakes off these thoughts. He may not trust Malfoy, but he trusts Remus. And if Malfoy  _does_ murder Harry tonight, Harry is going to spend the rest of eternity haunting the werewolf.

 

* * *

 

“I’m not sleeping on the floor.”

Harry barely glances in Malfoy’s direction as he softly closes the bedroom door behind him and pads over to his trunk, rummaging inside. His uncle had, surprisingly, let Harry keep the majority of his school supplies this summer, as if he knew Harry wasn’t planning to return next year and wanted to rub it in his face.

Harry, feeling rather agitated due to the fact _Draco Malfoy_ is in his bedroom - a situation he would never have even  _considered_ before today - takes a quick look around his room as if seeing it through new eyes. It’s pretty miserable. The grey walls, the tiny bed, and broken wardrobe. The depressing lack of personal belongings. The entire small space looks more like a cell than a teenagers bedroom. Harry sends a silent prayer of thanks to the Weasley twins for wrenching off the bars on his window all those years ago.

Even Hedwig's cage is empty, a fact Harry would have taken comfort in a couple of hours ago; preferring her to be out and flying free than stuck cooped up all day. Now, however, her lack of presence just seems to cement the lack of  _everything_ in his room.

“Potter. I am _not_ sleeping on the-“

“No one is making you,” Harry snaps, sitting on the edge of his bed with a textbook. He glares up at Malfoy, who is scowling down at the deflated blow-up mattress with his hands on his hips. He turns his head to shoot the scowl at Harry instead.

“What’s this then?” he demands, waving a disdainful hand towards the floor.

“It’s an air mattress. You blow it up,” Harry says shortly, shifting to lay back on his bed and opening his book.

“You  _blow_ it  _up?_ ” Malfoy asks loudly, taking a hasty step away from the plastic sheet.

Harry rolls his eyes and lets out a huff of irritation. “Not like - it  _inflates_. There’s a pump over there.” Harry points vaguely towards the floor.

For a few seconds, there is nothing but silence and Harry can almost convince himself he is alone, until a sharp rattling sound fills the air. Harry ignores it. Malfoy huffs. Harry ignores him. The rattling continues and Malfoy lets out a very loud and pointed sigh of frustration.

“Oh, what now?” Harry turns his head to glare at the other boy, who is sitting cross-legged on top of the - still deflated - mattress and is shaking the pump in front of his face like a magic 8-ball that won’t give him an answer he is satisfied with.

Malfoy stops shaking the damn thing and sends Harry a look of pure loathing. Harry is well aware the blonde has absolutely no idea how the pump works, and he also knows that Malfoy would probably rather pull his own two front teeth out than ask Harry for help.

Harry raises his eyebrows at him expectantly, cocking his head. “Having trouble?” He asks innocently.

“No,’ Malfoy sniffs, making a show of inspecting the plastic tube as if this definitely isn't the first time he has ever seen one before.

“Okay then,” Harry shrugs, going back to his book.

There are few more seconds of silence, then;

“Potter, this bump is broken.”

“It’s not broken.” Harry turns a page. “And it’s called a pump.”

“That’s what I said.”

Harry nods indulgently down at the words in front of him.

“Potter.”

“Malfoy.”

_“Potter!”_

“Oh, for fuck’s sake - it goes in the hole!” Harry slaps his book down on his chest and turns his head back to glare at Malfoy once more.

Malfoy looks down at the pump with an irritated expression, turning the nozzle towards him to peek down the hole as if expecting to see some sort of tiny gnome inside.

“No, just - oh, give it here,” Harry groans, swinging sideways off the bed and stomping a few steps across the room, snatching the pump out of Malfoy’s hands. “Move,” Harry flaps a hand at him until Malfoy rolls his eyes and scoots off the mattress.

Harry plops down on the floor, shoving the nozzle where it’s supposed to go and beginning to pump the handle with over-exaggerated movements, eyes fixed on Malfoy’s face and a large patronising smile tilting his lips. Malfoy watches him with a scowl, moving to sit with his back against the wall.

“Don’t get comfortable, I’m not doing it  _all_ for you,” Harry grumbles, turning his attention back down to check that the pump is, indeed, working as it should.

“You seem to know what you’re doing,” Malfoy sniffs, making a show of settling in and stretching his legs out in front of him.

Harry stops pumping immediately and holds the device out expectantly for Malfoy to take. Malfoy lets out an all-suffering sigh and reaches out a pale hand towards it. Just before his fingers make contact, Harry drops the pump onto the floor and moves to stand. “There, now you know how it works. Hop to it.” Harry walks away without a glance and flops back onto his bed.

Malfoy doesn’t move for a couple of minutes, breathing heavily, but after it is clear Harry won’t be getting up again he huffs and the room is filled with the repetitive sound of sliding plastic.

“This would be a lot easier with magic,” Malfoy complains.

Harry doesn’t know what to say to that, so he says nothing. He doesn’t know if this is Malfoy’s odd attempt at small talk. The lack of hissyfits is unnerving, as if he is trying to pretend he  _isn't_ a massive tosser.

“Your relatives are ghastly,” Malfoy says suddenly.

 _There is it,_ Harry thinks with a frown. “So are yours,” he replies, matter-of-fact.

There’s a strained silence where Harry stares at his book without reading anything and Malfoy stays still for a long moment before returning to the mattress.

It’s not long before Malfoy’s bed is fully blown up and he has made up it up with sheets and a duvet. He leaves the room in silence.

When Malfoy returns a short while later, Harry is under the covers of his own bed and Malfoy is wearing - surprisingly - grey jogging bottoms and a white t-shirt, damp hair curling towards his face.

Neither say a word as Malfoy turns off the light and they both settle into their own beds, closing their eyes and both trying to pretend they are somewhere else.

It takes Harry a long time before he is comfortable enough to fall asleep, and his dreams are filled with red slashes over porcelain skin.

 

* * *

 

Harry blinks his eyes open, feeling more tired than he did when he went to bed. For a glorious second, he thinks of nothing before memories from the previous night come to the forefront of his mind and he yawns, turning onto his side to see a still bulge of blankets on the other side of the room. 

Sitting up as quietly as possible, Harry slips from his bed and pads out of the room, grabbing a pile of clothes from a chair on his way out.

Fuck Malfoy and fuck this entire situation. Harry has  _plans_.

 

* * *

 

“You look like shit,” is the first thing Lucas says when he sees him, sitting on top of the graffiti-stained slide. 

“Fuck you an’ all,” Harry grins, heading over to him. He steps up onto the bottom of the slide, slowly edging upwards until his trainers lose their grip and he ends up sliding back down again. Lucas laughs in delight, face tilting back towards the sky.

Harry regains his balance and narrows his eyes up at the chuckling boy. He reaches up and grabs hold of Lucas’ ankles, tugging hard as the other yelps and is promptly dragged down the slide and off the end. He skids across the dusty ground, wincing as Harry sniggers and steps out of the way of a wayward kick aimed at his shin.

“Bellend,” Lucas says, trying not to smile and kicking out at Harry again.

Harry catches his foot between both hands and begins dragging him across the ground.

“Ow-fuck! Harry, get _off_!” Lucas yells with a laugh, trying to tug his foot back as Harry drags him onto the grass. “I’m being torn apart! Help!”

Harry, grinning, lets go of the boy and is promptly bowled over as Lucas dives at his legs, knocking him down. Lucas lets out an _‘A-HA!’_ of triumph, grabbing at Harry’s arms and trying to pin him down. Harry plants one foot on the ground and rolls, taking Lucas with him. They end up tipping down a small hill, limbs flailing and tangling together as sharp twigs and stones dig into their skin with each rotation.

An elbow collides with Harry’s ribs, making him grunt in pain and when they finally stop rolling, he hovers over Lucas with a raised fist.

Lucas stares at his arm, posed and ready to strike, then turns raised eyebrows to Harry’s face. “I don’t even get a ‘How has your day been?’” Lucas jokes weakly, breathing hard.

Harry blinks and lowers his fist, turning to sit upright with his back to the other boy.

“You okay?” Lucas asks, sitting up. “Wanna fight about it?” He asks in a poor imitation of an American accent.

Harry snorts and rolls his eyes at the boy over his shoulder. He really _really_ doesn’t want to think about Malfoy right now. This, _Lucas_ , is supposed to be his reprieve from everything. But there he is, that annoying nasty git with his ridiculous hair right in the forefront of his mind.

Harry _does_ want to fight about it. He would  _love_ to punch the pointy bastard right in his pointy face.

“How has your day been?” Harry asks instead of answering.

Lucas groans. “Ugh, don’t _actually_ ask me that."

Harry chuckles, bumping his shoulder against the other boys. Lucas punches his shoulder back in retaliation - hard.

“Ow.”

Lucas grins and does it again.

“Stop, you mental,” Harry scowls half-heartedly, knocking away the predicted third punch with the back of his hand. Lucas changes direction, aiming a fist at Harry’s thigh.

Harry tries to shove him off, huffing a laugh and using one hand to deflect the blows while the other lands a few hits itself.

It isn’t long before their familiar lighthearted wrestling gets taken up a notch. It starts with Lucas landing a firm, but still fairly light, knock to Harry’s cheekbone and Harry is reminded of their first fight as a sharp pain explodes behind his eye. Harry grabs his glasses from his face and chucks them carelessly a few feet away, Lucas watching him with burning eyes and they stare at each other for a moment. Then fists are flying in full force.

Lucas splits Harry’s lip. Harry almost dislocates Lucas’ shoulder. Then they’re panting hard and rolling too tightly together to really do much more damage.

Lucas shoves Harry underneath him once more, reaching up to grab a fistful of dark hair - which Harry absently thinks is a bit catty - and pulls Harry’s head up off the ground before stilling suddenly. He blinks down at Harry, dark eyes flicking from one green eye below him to the other, his breath mingling with Harry’s own.

“What?” Harry pants, heart thudding painfully in his chest.  

The dark eyes above him dart to Harry’s bleeding lips for a second before resting back, wide and intense, on his face. Harry’s heart jolts, an odd ache tightening his chest as if he’s been winded.

_Oh._

Harry sucks in a breath, mind blank, body sore and blood pumping full of adrenaline, and leans up to close the tiny gap of space between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come bully me on tumblr
> 
> <3


	3. Cool

_Well._

The sun is only just starting to set across the horizon as Harry strolls back to number four, pinks and oranges staining the sky as if someone has taken a paintbrush to it. The beauty of it is lost to Harry, however, who is staring down at his feet, lost in thought as he walks.

_Well._

He couldn’t say it was unexpected, the unexpected kiss. And then the unexpected hand grabbing and hair pulling and teeth clashing and hips grinding. Completely, totally, one hundred percent expected.

It was all  _so_ expected, in fact, that Harry definitely  _wasn’t_ hyperventilating a little bit while also trying to smother an odd grin.

It makes sense, in a way, to go from one act of aggression to another - fine lines and all that. Adrenaline, heightened senses, _blood._ Bodies writhing close together. It's erotic.

Harry snorts to himself, a bit embarrassed. He certainly hasn’t thought of fighting as  _erotic_ before. Harry has been in a lot of damn fights, and never once has it felt like that before. Turned into something like  _that_ before.

It doesn’t come as a great revelation, Harry isn't  _that_ oblivious. He remembers meeting Bill Weasley for the first time - with his ponytail and fang earring and easy smile - and feeling  _something_ shift inside his chest, a twinge in his groin that he tried to ignore. After that, Harry had become uncomfortably aware whenever Dean - and even Seamus on the odd occasion - had wandered out of the bathroom in nothing but a towel, skin damp and dripping. Harry had taken to focusing on a particular chip in the wood of his bedpost whenever this happened, hoping no one would notice the red tinge in his cheeks and make the connection- sometimes he really is grateful he shares a room with Ron and not Hermione with her all-seeing eyes.

He felt the same thing whenever he had looked at Ginny after Quidditch practice, sweat curling her fiery hair to her forehead and uniform clinging to her slight frame.

_Ginny._

Harry shakes his head. He can’t allow himself to feel any more guilt than he already does about every- _fucking_ -thing else. This thing with Lucas, this distraction - and that’s all it is, Harry  _knows_ that - it means nothing. _Nothing_. And that's okay.

It’s all okay.

Harry lets himself into the house, mind still whirring, and heads towards the kitchen. All the lights are off, except for the living room where the door is slightly ajar and sounds from the TV drift out but go unnoticed by Harry as he passes.

Harry grabs an apple before jogging up the stairs and towards his room. He takes a large bite as he opens the door, the sweet acidic taste making him cringe slightly and he chucks it onto his bed along with his wand.

Harry shuts the door with a soft click and throws himself onto his bed, pressing his face into his pillow.

The best thing to do is to not think too hard about anything here. That’s what has got Harry through every summer here in Surrey. It’s trivial. _Lucas_ is trivial. There are more important-

Suddenly, the door bursts open so hard it slams against the opposite wall. Harry jerks, heart jumping out of his chest and he dives off the bed, reaching for his wand in the same movement.

Malfoy stands at the threshold, a murderous expression on his face and fists clenched tightly at his sides - but thankfully wandless. The muscles of his jaw twitch ominously, and Harry would be concerned about the state of his teeth after all that angry grinding if he - you know - gave a shit about the state of Malfoy’s teeth.

“What the fuck!?” Harry hisses, lowering his wand a fraction.

Malfoy stands there breathing heavily for a long moment, glaring daggers. “Nice day?” he asks eventually, voice pitched mockingly pleasant.

“What?” Harry snaps, heart still beating unpleasantly fast.

Malfoy stomps one step into the room, kicking the door closed shut him. There is a distant shout of _‘Keep it down!’_ from downstairs which they both ignore. “You heard me,” Malfoy spits out, not moving a muscle.

“What’s it to you?” Harry asks angrily, throwing his wand back onto his bedside table now he - assumes - he isn’t under attack. This is debatable, he thinks as Malfoy’s face gets impossibly darker.

“What’s it to me? What’s it to  _me?_ You have been out _all day,”_ Malfoy says, voice disturbingly quiet and sharp cheekbones stained pink in anger.

Harry blinks. “So?”

“I have had to spend the entire day with your appalling relatives. _Alone_.” Malfoy throws a wild arm out towards the closed door.

“Oh, poor you,” Harry says sarcastically, rolling his eyes.

“Yes poor me! That beast of an uncle of yours spent the entire day-“ he stops, obviously realising his voice is rising dramatically and takes a few deep breaths to compose himself. “Going on about  _our kind_ ,” he spits out lowly, shaking his head in disgust.

“Well get used to it,” Harry snaps in irritation, throwing himself back onto his bed. “ _That_ isn’t going to change anytime soon.”

“You left me here  _alone_ , Potter,” Malfoy repeats pointedly, like he’s accusing Harry of abandoning him in a locked room with a hungry tiger and no wand. He crosses his arms across his chest, still making no move to step further into the room.

“What’s the issue here? You miss me or something?” Harry scoffs.

Malfoy sucks in an enraged breath, hands dropping back down to his sides. “Fuck you,” he says, deathly quiet.

“Fuck _me!?”_ Harry laughs incredulously. _“_ I’m not the one throwing tantrums and smashing doors down! I do, actually, have a life beyond babysitting you. You’re a big boy, I’m sure you can survive a couple of hours with a few  _muggles_ ,” Harry scowls, throwing out the last word in an imitation of Malfoy’s aristocratic drawl.

Malfoy finally moves, and it’s to take an angry step towards Harry. “You don’t know what they were saying.”

Harry laughs again without any humour, moving to rest his hands underneath his head. “I guarantee it’s nothing I haven't heard a million times before.”

Malfoy frowns at him and Harry suddenly feels a little uncomfortable. He would much rather someone like _Draco Malfoy_ to have gone his whole life without knowing the full extent of what Harry’s life with the Dursleys was like. And not only because if Malfoy knows, then Rita Skeeter would be the next person to know, followed by the entire wizarding population.

In a show of false bravado, Harry simply gives an over-exaggerated shrug at Malfoy when the blonde doesn’t reply, egging him on to speak his mind. Even though that’s really the last thing he wants right now.

Malfoy steps over to his air bed, sinking down onto the edge and looking at Harry in frustrated confusion. “How can you love them so much?”

Harry, taken aback, sits up. “Who said anything about me _loving_ them?”

Malfoy blinks at this, a crease appearing between his eyebrows for a moment before rolling his eyes. “Not _them,_ idiot,” Malfoy says, gesturing towards the door again _._ “I mean muggles in general.” He sounds genuinely curious and Harry stares at him.

“Do you really want to get into this now?” Harry shakes his head at him, really  _really_ not wanting to get into this now.

“I’m sure it will come up sooner or later,” Malfoy raises one eyebrow and one shoulder simultaneously - easy breezy. “Might as well get it over with now, wouldn’t you agree?”

Unimpressed, Harry gives a short answer, “They’re just people.”

Malfoy’s other eyebrow raises to meet it’s pale, finely groomed friend on his forehead. “Just people?” He scoffs.

“Ye-es.”

“Do you honestly believe that the rest of them wouldn’t have the same attitude as your relatives if they knew about us?” Malfoy says, irritation bleeding into his voice.

Harry’s spine stiffens ramrod straight and he gives Malfoy a hooded look. “What, you mean the same attitude _you_ have about _them?”_

Malfoy leans forward, eyes narrowed and keen, mouth twisted into a horrible imitation of a smirk. “And what attitude is that, Potter? Please, tell me how I feel about them.”

Feeling his anger rise a worrying few degrees, Harry stands abruptly. “I’m not doing this with you,” he states as calmly as possible.

Malfoy, however, rises up too and takes a step towards him. “Think I want them all dead?” he asks, suddenly enraged, eyes so cold Harry almost shivers. “Think I would _be here if-_ “

Harry suddenly finds himself an inch away from Malfoy’s face. “ _I am_ _NOT having this conversation with you,”_ he hisses lowly.

Malfoy leans closer, straight white teeth bared and grey eyes narrowed into slits. “Oh really? And why is that?”

“Because I don’t trust myself enough not to-“ Harry stops himself from finishing the sentence, breathing hard.

Malfoy stares hard at him for a long moment, expression slowly turning into something sardonic. He jerks his head to the side and nods as if confirming something in his head. He moves away without a word, sitting back down on his bed, blank face staring down at his clenched fists in his lap.

Harry bites down hard on the inside of his cheek, emotions churning unpleasantly in his chest so fast he finds it hard to identify them all. Taking a deep breath, he steps back over to his own bed and slumps back down onto his pillows.

Harry opens his mouth a few times, questions burning on his tongue, but when he finally does utter the first syllable of a word Malfoy shoots him a sharp look that quite clearly reads _‘Shut the hell up, Potter’._ So Harry stays silent.

The door swings open, startling them both. Petunia cranes her abnormally long neck into the room, face lined with distaste.

“You two, you’re making dinner.”

 

* * *

 

“Do you know how to peel potatoes?”

Malfoy gives Harry a look like he’s idiotic.

Harry ignores this. “Without magic, I mean.” He waves the peeler in front of him.

“I think I can manage,” Malfoy snipes, snatching it out of Harry’s hand and turning towards the counter.

It only takes Malfoy a couple of tries before he gets the hang of it, Harry keeping one eye trained on Malfoy’s hands as he takes an onion and starts slicing it thinly.

They work in silence, Harry focusing on his task and pushing all thoughts out of his mind. It’s uncomfortable at first, the heavy silence between them, but soon the familiar routine of slice-chop-stir-repeat settles Harry’s nerves enough for him to forget exactly who is standing beside him - peeling potatoes of all things.

A little while later, Harry glances up from adding a pinch of paprika into the pan to his right to see Malfoy watching him with a curious expression.

“What?”

Malfoy’s face shutters, turning carefully blank. He shrugs, turning back to his potatoes. “Just wondering how you were always so appalling in potions.” He slants an eye over to the sizzling pan pointedly.

Harry grunts, grabbing a clove of garlic and placing it under his knife. “It’s hard to concentrate when a murderer is breathing down your neck every ten seconds.”

The silence is heavy, suffocating. Then, “To be fair, he wasn’t a murderer  _then,_ ” Malfoy says lightly.

Harry pauses in his slicing. He turns an incredulous stare at Malfoy, whose attention is fixated solely on his potatoes. His expression is mild, except for the slight tension around his mouth. What the hell is he trying to do? Harry certainly doesn’t know. He stares at the side of Malfoy’s face for a long moment.

“That we know of,” Harry mutters eventually, turning away and slicing down into the garlic so hard the knife gets stuck into the wood of the chopping board. He yanks it out roughly.

Malfoy takes a breath as if he is about to say something, but just then Dudley wanders into the kitchen, clambering over to them and reaching into a cabinet to get a glass. Harry quickly takes a sidestep to avoid getting his toes crushed by Dudley’s giant feet, almost knocking into Malfoy in the process.

“What you making?” Dudley asks, eyeing the pan curiously and leaning against the counter next to them.

Harry gives him a suspicious look, not for the first time noticing Dudley’s sudden - and disturbing - lack of animosity. He is still half under the impression it’s all some long-drawn-out prank, and Dudley is going to turn around one day and smash him over the head with the toaster with a yell of _‘HA-GOT YOU!’._ Harry kind of wishes the boy would just hurry up and get on with it, that scenario would be less disconcerting than the thought of Dudley  _trying to be friends._

Malfoy seems to be under a similar impression, giving Dudley a look of clear mistrust and dislike.

“Take an educated guess,” Harry mutters with deliberate snarkiness, waving a sarcastic hand towards the - extremely visible and identifiable - food cooking on the hob, hoping to provoke a familiar reaction from the disturbingly wide boy. Dudley, however, simply shrugs and steps away from them, walking behind Malfoy towards the fridge. Harry sags, oddly disappointed.

“Hey, cool tattoo,” Dudley remarks casually as he passes.

Harry feels Malfoy freeze next to him, and he darts a look over. Without Harry noticing, Malfoy has rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, the dark mark sitting proudly on the pale skin of his forearm. Harry swallows down a rise of bile, glancing upwards to see Malfoy watching his face, lips white.

“What’s it mean?” Dudley continues, unaware of the tension he has just caused and rummaging around in the fridge.

“Nothing,” Malfoy says after a strained moment of silence, tugging his sleeve back down with a wet hand and hiding the mark from view.

“I’ve been thinking about getting a tattoo myself, or a couple actually, but Dad…”

Harry tunes out Dudley’s voice, eyes still locked onto Malfoys who raises his chin a little in challenge.

_“Cool,”_ Harry murmurs, repeating Dudley’s chosen word of approval, and turns back to his onions. His hands are trembling slightly as he slices, but when he glances over briefly, he notices that Malfoy’s are too.

 

* * *

 

Dinner is a surprisingly uneventful affair. This is mainly due to the fact that the Dursleys take their plates into the living room to eat in front of the TV, giving Harry and Malfoy pointed looks to not follow.

“What on earth-? Where are they going?” Malfoy asks in outrage, holding his plate to his chest as if someone is about to snatch it away from him.

“Just sit down, Malfoy,” Harry sighs, taking a seat at the table.

“But… I _cooked_ for them,” Malfoy breathes, sounding bewildered and like he doesn’t know what to do with that emotion.

Harry rolls his eyes, deciding against correcting his _‘I’_ to a ‘ _We’ -_ or more accurately a _‘You’_ as Malfoy had declared his fingers hurt from all the peeling to do much else, leaving Harry to cook the majority of the meal. Harry reaches over to take Malfoy’s plate from his hands and places it in front of the empty seat next to him. “Eat.”

Malfoy huffs an offended breath, scraping the chair back loudly before falling into it dramatically. “I cannot believe the sheer shameless displays of rudeness from these people!”

“Well, believe it.” Harry stuffs a large mouthful of potatoes into his mouth, hoping Malfoy will take this as a cue to start eating.

“Potter, they are vile.”

“Yes.”

“Your relatives are  _vile_ ,” Malfoy repeats with vicious emphasis, as if Harry had disagreed with him.

“Yes, I know!” Harry snaps impatiently, biting his tongue to stop himself from retorting with some choice words about _Malfoy’s_ relatives - but that would mean defending the Dursleys, in a way, plus Harry doesn’t really want to risk getting a fork stabbed into his arm if he can help it. “Just shut up and eat your dinner please, I would like to go to bed at some point tonight.”

Malfoy turns the glare he was previously aiming at the kitchen door to Harry’s face instead. But, thank god, he picks up his fork between delicate fingers, inspects it for a second which has Harry rolling his eyes again, before stabbing it into his steak.

“This is  _acceptable_ , I suppose,” Malfoy says in his most pompous and aristocratic drawl after swallowing down his first bite. Harry’s eye twitches.

“Well, what do you expect when  _you_ cooked it all,” Harry snipes sarcastically.

Malfoy nods grandly as if this makes perfect sense. “I suppose you’re right.”

Harry fights an increasing urge to lob a potato at Malfoy’s head, but he’s been working on his impulsivity since Sirius died and manages to resist the temptation. Quite proud of himself, Harry turns back to his plate and eats in silence.

“So are you going to make me ask?” Malfoy huffs in impatience a while later, as they’re finishing their last few bites.

“Ask what?” Harry sighs with growing dread - it was naive, he thinks, to had ever thought they could just eat their meal in silence. Not when Malfoy loves the sound of his own ridiculously posh voice. Harry just didn’t ever think that ridiculously posh voice would voluntarily be addressing _him_ when it could much easily just mutter poisonous words quietly to itself.

Malfoy waves his fork in a full circle around his face, raising expectant eyebrows. “The face, Potter. You look like you have been in a fight with a hippogriff and lost.”

“That was _you_ if I remember correctly,” Harry mutters under his breath. Malfoy obviously has the hearing of a pointy blonde bat and narrows his eyes hatefully. “What are you asking me, exactly?” Harry says louder, shoving the last bit of food into his mouth.

Malfoy gives him a disgusted look, placing his knife and fork down delicately onto his plate. “What do you mean, ‘what am I asking you?’” he snaps. “What happened to your face, Scarhead?” Malfoy asks loudly and slowly, as if Harry is hard of hearing.

“Why do you care?” Harry asks with a frown, annoyed.

Malfoy glares at him for a moment longer before shrugging in exaggerated nonchalance. “Fine then, I’ll leave it.”

“Okay, good,” Harry nods, rising from the table with his plate and taking it over to the dishwasher.

When he looks back, Malfoy is glaring down at his own plate as if the leftover potatoes have morphed into Ron Weasley’s face and called him a ferret.

“Oi, you finished or what?” Harry calls over, tired and snappish.

Malfoy jerks, tilting his head up but not meeting his eyes. “Yes, thank you.”

Harry’s eyebrows rise so high they’re practically sitting at the back of his neck. Did Malfoy just - _oh._ His dark eyebrows lower back down into a scowl so quickly the muscles of his forehead ache. Harry watches, speechless, as Malfoy stands and begins sauntering out of the kitchen, leaving his plate on the table for Harry to clear away.

“Erm-yeah, no. Excuse me,” Harry barks in outrage, striding quickly over to block his escape.

Malfoy looks down at him - ugh, _down_ , only by about an inch _but_ _still -_ with an innocent expression. “Yes?”

“I’m not your house elf,” Harry snaps, crossing his arms.

Malfoy’s lips twitch as if he has thought of something both amusing and insulting - it’s an expression Harry is _very_ familiar with - and Harry holds his breath in irritated anticipation. As Malfoy opens his mouth, however, his pale eyes flick over Harry’s face for a second - and he closes it again. The mirth around his eyes harden into an expression that Harry can’t fully identify. Challenge? Determination? Then, quite deliberately, Malfoy gives him a slow once-over, making Harry tighten his arms self-consciously.

“No,” Malfoy agrees calmly. He meets Harry’s eyes again. “You’re not.”

Harry’s eyebrows twitch, his held breath whooshing out of his lungs in bewilderment, suddenly nervous and unsure of himself but not really able to pinpoint why.

“Er. You-your plate.”

Malfoy simply blinks at him, eyes hooded. One corner of his mouth twitches in what Harry assumes is the beginning of a smirk.

Anger swells up inside Harry unexpectedly, seemingly from nowhere, and he drops his hands to his side, fists clenched. He grabs onto the anger with both hands, finding relief and stability in the familiar emotion. He takes a step towards Malfoy, who flinches slightly but holds his ground. Harry leans closer, bringing his mouth towards the blonde's ear.

_“Time to start cleaning up your own messes, Malfoy,”_ he hisses softly, spiteful and full of meaning.

Pulling back, Harry stares at Malfoy’s pale face; his lips pinched together tightly as he stares blankly at a point behind Harry’s shoulder. His eyes are bright, body trembling with barely-suppressed rage.

Shaking his head in disgust, Harry barges past him, knocking his shoulder into Malfoy’s painfully, and storms his way up the stairs towards his room.

 

* * *

 

Harry jerks awake with a strangled gasp, eyes snapping open to stare wide and unfocused up at the dark ceiling. His breathing is ragged, limbs tangled in his sheets as if he had been trying to fight them off during the night. Heart racing and throat sore, Harry lets out a low whimper of discomfort, curling onto his side in a fetal position and scrunching his eyes tightly shut.

He can’t remember what he was dreaming about, the images already drifting away into the darkness of his mind, but his chest is tight with fear and misery and _god he is so sick of this._

Once his breathing has slowed back to something almost normal, Harry takes note of the wetness on his face. Either from sweat or tears or both, he doesn’t know. He opens his eyes, using the corner of his duvet to wipe at his face before letting out a stuttered breath.

Moonlight is pouring a single glowing beam across the room -  he can’t have been asleep for very long - and when Harry’s eyes follow the beam across the room, he ends up staring right into the pale face of Malfoy who is laying on his side facing Harry, very much awake and looking like he has been for some time.

Harry stills, swallowing. He waits for a mocking smirk, a raised eyebrow, cutting words about _‘poor pathetic Potter’_ \- but nothing comes. Malfoy simply stares back at him, face curiously blank. The gleam from the moonlight bounces off his eyes, making them appear almost white, two orbs glowing eerily in the darkness. 

Harry wonders absently if the other boy has slept at all - the dark rings under his eyes suggesting that he probably hasn’t - or if Harry woke him up. Neither is a very comforting thought.

Starting to feel a little unnerved by the frozen statue of Draco Malfoy in front of him, Harry shifts slightly. For a second he starts to wonder if Malfoy is actually asleep after all, if he’s one of those people who creepily sleep with their eyes open. He wouldn’t put it past the blonde, who seems to take great pride in making people uncomfortable. But then, Malfoy blinks, slowly as if his eyelids are heavy. He blinks again, slower, and then his eyes drift shut and stay that way. Harry lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, can’t seem to tear his eyes away from the peaceful form, the slow rise and fall of the thin chest.

Without consciously thinking about it, Harry finds himself imitating the calm breathing pattern coming from the other boy.

_In and out. In and out. In and out._

His eyes drift closed once more, sinking back into sleep with surprising ease.

_In and out. In and out. In..._


	4. The Letter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ettie is an angel and I would give her my blood if she needed it, thank you babe for all your help once again, you are one of a kind <3
> 
> Also, thank you to everyone who has commented or shown an interest in this story, y'all brighten my day and make me write faster <3

* * *

 

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

Harry stirs, mind foggy with sleep. He sucks in a great yawn, eyes still firmly shut.

_Tap. Tap. TAP._

“Mmphr,” Malfoy mumbles from his bed. Harry agrees.

_TAPTAPTAP._

Harry opens his eyes, squinting against the brightness. He glances over to his window, where a dark owl with bright yellow eyes is trying to peck a hole through the glass. When it notices Harry, it stills and gives him a very stern look.

“Ugh,” Harry groans. He sits up, rubbing his eyes and letting out another great yawn.

_TAP._

“Yeah, I’m coming, I’m coming!” Harry snaps at the impatient thing and swings his legs off the bed, padding over to the window.

“I hate your owl. Tell your owl I hate her,” a muffled voice complains under a bundle of sheets on the air bed.

“It’s not my owl,” Harry mumbles tiredly, opening the latch of the window and letting the scowling bird inside. It sticks out a leg - Harry swears it huffs at him - and Harry quickly unties the letter. Task complete, the owl swoops over to Hedwig's cage for a quick drink, diving down to graze its talons across the lump of the duvet on Malfoy’s bed - which jerks and lets out a small yelp of surprise - as it passes.

Harry sniggers, and is promptly subjected to an icy glare from two grey eyes appearing from within the blankets.

“Shut up, Potter.”

Still chuckling, Harry glances down at the envelope in his hands. It’s thick, which means it’s probably from Hermione. Turning it over, however, Harry spies Remus’ handwriting.

He also spies that it’s addressed to _Malfoy._

“It’s for you,” Harry mutters, frowning in confusion. _Why is Remus writing to Malfoy?_ Remus hardly even writes to _Harry._

Ignoring a twinge of childish jealousy, Harry passes the envelope over to the disembodied hand that has slid out of the duvet lump, fingers waggling expectantly. Harry pulls it back sharply as the fingers make contact, the predicted annoyed grunt making him smirk. He holds it out again and the hand snatches the parchment before retracting back into its blanket cocoon.

“Why is Remus writing to you?” Harry asks, a bit petulantly.

Obviously coming to realise that he can’t possibly read anything under a heavy duvet with no light, Malfoy sits up and pulls the cover off his head and one shoulder. His hair is - rather satisfyingly, Harry thinks - an absolute state. Well, maybe that’s a bit of an exaggeration, but Harry thinks it’s only fair that Malfoy should suffer from bed-head like the rest of us mere mortals.

Harry has a brief, sobering moment of realisation that he is standing in his bedroom in Privet Drive, and Draco Malfoy is sitting wrapped up in bed sheets on an air mattress not three feet away. Life really is strange.

Pausing in the act of delicately sliding one long index finger under the seam of the envelope, Malfoy glances up at Harry with his classic _‘you’re an idiot’_ look.

“I didn’t think you of all people would take notice of rumours, Potter,” Malfoy says haughtily, shaking his head in a show of solemn disappointment.

Harry frowns, moving to close the window after the dark owl has taken its leave without waiting for a reply. “Eh?”

 _“Eloquent as ever_ ,” Malfoy murmurs quietly. Harry scowls, but the blonde continues before he can retort. “You know, the rumour that I can predict the contents of any letter before it’s been opened,” Malfoy dead-pans. “Trelawny hated my guts but I always believed you were above idle gossip, Potter, however, I suppose I have been wrong before.” Malfoy raises his hands up in mock defeat, giving Harry a side-eyed look full of mischief.

Harry huffs out a fake laugh and rolls his eyes. “Ha-ha. You're hysterical,” he drones sarcastically, flopping back onto his bed with a sigh.

“Only when the occasion calls for it,” Malfoy replies importantly, turning back to his letter with a small smirk.

Harry’s half afraid his eyes are going to fall out of their sockets if he carries on rolling them so often.

Harry has almost drifted into a half-asleep relaxed state to the sound of soft rustling parchment before Malfoy sucks in a sharp breath and disturbs the peace. Opening his eyes, Harry rolls his head to the side curiously. Malfoy has taken the thick wad of parchment out of the envelope - what has Remus sent him, a novel? - and his eyes are darting from side to side rapidly as he reads. His face is pale - paler than usual that is - and his jaw is clenched tight.

“What does it say? What does he want?” Harry asks with growing interest. By the look on Malfoy’s face, it’s something…well, it really could be anything. Is that happiness in his eyes? Or sadness? Fear? Confusion? Impossible to tell.

Malfoy ignores him, shuffling the parchment he just read to the back of the pile as his eyes greedily take in the next page. Harry notices his bony fingers are trembling slightly, and he props his head up with one elbow, eyeing the boy with a frown.

“Malfoy,” Harry says a bit louder.

Malfoy’s face gives nothing away as he reads, expression closed except for his wide unblinking eyes as they fly from left to right, mouth moving silently over the words.

Because he’s a polite young man - thank you very much - Harry decides to wait until Malfoy has finished reading his novel-length letter before speaking again. After all, it must be important and requires all of the git's attention if he can’t spare two seconds of his time to respond to Harry’s questions.

However, this act of chivalry proves redundant, because once Malfoy gets to the end of his letter, he nibbles his bottom lip for a moment before sliding the last page to the back and starting to read the whole damn thing again.

“Malfoy. _Malfoy.”_

Nothing.

 _“Ma-alfo-oy,_ ” Harry sings, sitting fully up and huffing in impatience.

Malfoy, the git, simply flaps a silencing hand in Harry’s general direction without taking his eyes off the paper, before falling back against his pillow and rolling onto his side to face the wall.

Harry stares at his turned back and opens his mouth to complain, but Malfoy grabs his duvet and throws it back over himself pointedly, eyes never leaving the letter.

 _Well then._ Let it never be said that Harry can’t take a hint.

Harry lets out a loud sigh and shoves himself off the bed, padding out of the room and into the bathroom.

After he has taken care of business and had a quick shower, Harry enters his room to find that Malfoy hasn't moved from his position under the blankets. Harry stares down at the lump for a moment, before heading over to his broken wardrobe and pulling out clean underwear, jeans and a t-shirt.

“I’m heading out,” Harry declares, shoving on his clothes quickly. Might as well give Malfoy some fair warning this time, maybe this will avoid another tantrum.

Malfoy doesn’t react to this. Harry takes this as a fairly good sign.

“I’ll be back this evening at the latest,” Harry continues, grabbing his trainers from under his bed and slipping his feet inside.

He looks over to the Malfoy lump. Nothing.

“You going to shout at me for leaving you again when I get back?” Harry mutters with a scoff, standing and putting his hands on his hips.

Silence.

Harry shoves his tongue into the side of his cheek.

“Okay. Well…see you later then,” Harry snaps, irritated, heading towards the door.

As he steps through, he pauses and looks back. Malfoy still hasn’t moved, the only thing Harry can see is a small tuft of white blonde hair peeking out of the top of the duvet.

Malfoy could have fallen back asleep. Harry doubts it, for some reason.

Harry tries not to think too hard about what Remus has sent the blonde. Tries not to think too hard about last night when he had woken up in a panic, with Malfoy watching him, and had fallen back into an undisturbed sleep by listening to the soft breaths coming from the other side of the room.

Harry turns away. Sighs. Turns back a second later.

“Just-stay out of their way,” Harry murmurs. He can deal with living under the same roof as some angry Dursleys, but angry Dursleys  _and_ an angry Malfoy? Harry has enough blood on his hands as it is.

Harry shuts the door softly behind him. His eyes are drawn to the half-a-dozen locks drilled into the outside of the door, and he stares at them for a moment, before turning and jogging down the stairs and out of the front door.

 

* * *

 

Harry pushes open the small metal gate into the play area. His eyes take in the space as he steps inside, the sharp creek of hinges making him twitch slightly. The park is empty.

Frowning, Harry wanders forward. He glances down at his watch. It’s the normal time he meets Lucas, neither boy has missed a day since they had met a week or so ago. Harry swallows down disappointment as he heads over to the swings.

He hadn’t really thought about Lucas when he had arrived home last night, distracted as he was with Malfoy throwing a Malfoy-tantrum. He tries to remember exactly how the mousy haired boy had seemed when Harry had left him yesterday evening.

His warm eyes had been sparkling, cheeks flushed, mouth quirked into a pleased smile that was twisted around the edges as if he had been trying to suppress it from turning into a grin. He had seemed happy. He said he would see Harry tomorrow. He said-

Harry freezes suddenly, a nearby rustle of leaves making his ears prick. He hovers one hand over his pocketed wand, turning in a slow circle and squinting into the trees, hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. Harry can’t see anything, or rather any _one,_ and he lets out a deep sigh. It was probably just a squirrel. Harry is aware of his growing paranoia, as much as it’s exhausting; he doesn’t think it’s a bad trait to have these days. _Constant vigilance_ , and all that.

A sharp creek has Harry spinning on his heel, half expecting to see Mundungus Fletcher spying - poorly - on him from within the bushes, and half expecting an escaped and enraged Lucius Malfoy; wand drawn and demanding to know where his son is. However, he finds himself facing the rusty old seesaw, one side dipping down slowly in the breeze. Harry pinches the bridge of his nose, shutting his eyes for a moment. Tilting his head up towards the sky, Harry blinks his eyes open, the bright sun causing black spots to dance across his vision. He notices an ache in his jaw, realising he is clenching his teeth together tightly. He forces his jaw to relax, rolling it around in a circle and causing the joints to crack.

Harry tilts his head down and to the side, eyeing the swings on the other side of the park as he forces a blank sheet to wrap around his mind. He steps forward, eyes slightly unfocused and fingers trembling at his side.

Harry takes about four steps, coming up to the old playing apparatus when a hand shoots out from behind the wooden climbing wall and grabs onto his arm. With a strangled gasp, Harry flails for his wand and tugs against the strong fingers. The hand gives a mighty tug and he is dragged into the small graffiti-adorned den, it’s thin walls hiding Harry from any prying eyes. Harry's fingers slip past the opening of his pocket, and he clenches his fist in desperation, raising it to give a blow as he is thrown onto the ground. A hand catches his wrist, pinning it next to his head and a body drapes itself over his, legs straddling his hips.

Grunting, Harry tries to buck the heavy weight off, but then lips are on his and he opens his mouth in a surprised gasp. His wide eyes focus on mousy curls tickling his cheek, quivering eyelids shut tight over dark eyes. The mouth on his is familiar and sweet, and fury engulfs Harry as his panic dissolves into something harder.

 _He could have killed him, Harry could have_ killed  _him._

Grabbing two fistfuls of Lucas’ hair, Harry tugs the boy to the side and rolls the boy under him, slamming his skull down on the dusty ground. Lucas grunts, the force prying their lips apart. Harry takes a second to enjoy the sound, finding satisfaction in the other boy's pain after nearly giving Harry a heart attack. One tanned fist shoots up to connect against Harry’s jaw, snapping his head to the side and he falls hard into the thin wall, pain exploding in his shoulder as it connects with the wood. Lucas follows him, fingers curling into the worn collar of Harry’s’ t-shirt and pulling him forward, crashing his lips to Harry's again.

Its cramped and uncomfortable, Harry half curled inwards to stop his head colliding with the low ceiling. Fingers snatch and pull at clothing, digging into waists and hips. Lucas lets out a low groan when Harry slips his tongue past his lips, arching impossibly closer into him. Harry snakes a hand around his throat, squeezing briefly before using his hold to propel the other boy backwards and onto the ground. Harry climbs over him, straddling one firm thigh and reaching down to press bruised lips together again.

It’s too much, not enough, painful and exciting and Harry has forgotten why he was so angry moments before. Not when all he can feel is the sharp bite of teeth on his bottom lip, taste the copper tang of blood on his tongue. His mind is gloriously blank, body acting on impulse as he grinds down and pulls hair and pierces skin with his nails.

Lucas pulls his head back a moment later, gasping for breath and Harry lets his forehead fall onto a sharp collarbone. They lay together in the tiny makeshift room for a few minutes, covered in dirt and surrounded by cigarette butts left by rebellious teenagers who have long forgotten about their existence.

“I don’t even get a ‘hello’?” Harry pants into the material of Lucas’ t-shirt, head vibrating with the boy’s responding breathless chuckle.

“Fancy an ice-cream?”

Harry lets out a wry huff of laughter. “Yeah, alright."

 

* * *

 

Harry drags his feet as he walks home, not looking forward to the impending argument that is sure to put an end to his relaxed mood. ‘Relaxed’ is a bit far-fetched, he will agree, but it’s the closest he has to got that particular emotion for a long time.

After enjoying an ice-cream, bickering lightly about the best flavour - which had turned into Harry pinning Lucas against the wall of their little hideaway and licking his cold vanilla treat into the other boy's mouth - Harry had made his excuses and left an hour earlier than usual.

He isn’t  _checking up_ on Malfoy, per say, but more that he is checking up on his belongings in the hope that the blonde hasn’t had a fit and thrown everything Harry owns out of the window.

Harry is still curious to know what was in that letter Remus sent Malfoy this morning - how could he  _not_ be - and after dismissing the idea of writing to Remus himself and demanding answers like a crazy person, Harry has decided to simply ask Malfoy again when he gets back. After all, considering the boy's reaction, its contents might concern Harry too - what if it’s about someone they know? Maybe Remus had even told Malfoy to relay the message to Harry, but he hadn’t because he’s a nasty little bastard.

For all Harry knows, it could be some tragic news about a classmate - Slytherin presumably, otherwise he is sure Remus would have written to  _him_ and not his temporary Death Eater roommate. Maybe Malfoy's girlfriend, pug-faced Parkinson, has been horribly disfigured in a fire or something. Harry grimaces with a pang of guilt from the small smirk that thought brings to his face. He doesn’t wish death or fire upon the girl - or any of the other Slytherins for that matter - he just really, _really_ doesn’t like Pansy Parkinson. And he can admit that freely, because Hermione does too and if Hermione Granger verbally admits she doesn’t like you, then you can pretty much guarantee no one else does either.

Harry slows his pace as he turns into Privet Drive, trying to enjoy the afternoon sunshine as much as he can before all hell breaks loose. Malfoy has the only-child mentality of needing constant attention, whether it’s good or bad, and Harry hates himself a little bit every time he is goaded into giving it. He always does though, he’s never had a very good impulse control, and Malfoy really does bring out the worst in him. Harry can probably count on one hand the number of times he has managed to walk away from Malfoy without throwing a hex or angry retort or a fist. Probably even less than that, if he’s being perfectly honest with himself.

Harry lets himself into the house quietly, not before a quick scan of the lawn which is - thankfully - void of any of his belongings, and treading softly into the kitchen. Petunia is standing by the sink, washing up in a pale pink apron. Harry pulls a face and reluctantly edges into the room, knowing she has heard him approach and thinking that turning around and heading straight upstairs seems cowardly somehow.

“I was wondering when I would see your face today,” she comments lightly, places a pan onto the drying rack.

Harry freezes, eyes swivelling from the fridge door to her turned back. “Erm…” he murmurs, baffled.

Petunia looks over her shoulder - Harry half expects to see an unfamiliar face on top of her freakishly long neck - a smile on her lips. Until she realises it's  _him_ , that is, and the smile drops from her mouth as quickly as if Harry had slapped it off her face.

Harry stares at her, jaw tensing. “Just me,” he mutters with mock cheeriness, holding up his right thumb. He turns back to the fridge, waiting for a snappish retort. As quickly as possible, he grabs the half eaten sandwich he had made that morning - three guesses to who ate the other half - and turns back towards his aunt.

She’s turned back to the sink without a word. Harry looks down at his snack, giving it a small humourless smile.

He shoves it into his mouth and leaves the kitchen.

 

* * *

 

His room is empty.

 _Huh._ Harry wasn’t expecting that. He glances at Malfoy’s bed, which is surprisingly made-up to near perfection for someone who was raised with house-elves cleaning up everything behind them. Harry turns full-circle, hands on his hips and frowning. Malfoy’s trunk is sitting on the floor at the foot of his mattress, so he obviously hasn’t left. Has he gone out? Is he allowed to? Harry highly doubts it, not when  _he_ himself isn’t technically allowed out either. If the Order knows he’s about gallivanting in parks and kissing boys, they sure aren't doing anything about it. Not that Harry would  _want_ them to, he shudders at the thought of  _that_ particular conversation with Remus. Or - god forbid - _Mrs Weasley_ , who definitely expects Harry to marry her daughter one day.

Harry shakes those thoughts from his mind, noticing the handle of Malfoy’s wand sticking out from under his pillow. Where would Malfoy even go? In this incredibly  _muggle_ neighbourhood? _Without his wand?_ Harry takes a step closer to Malfoy’s mattress, eyeing the pillow and wondering if the letter from Remus is hiding underneath it too. Harry reaches out a hesitant hand-

“SHOOT IT!”

Harry jumps about a foot into the air, hand shooting for his pocket before recognising Dudley’s gaming-voice. He must have a mate round - Harry hopes it isn’t Piers, that rat-faced weasel gives Harry the creeps.

Stepping back out into the hallway, Harry pads over to Dudley’s room, following the sounds of explosions and gunfire drifting out of the open door. He raps once on the wood with a knuckle, pushing it open fully before waiting for an answer.

“Oi, have you seen-“

Harry stops at the doorway, frozen into place by one of the most surreal sights his young eyes has ever witnessed.

“-Malfoy?” he finishes in a breath.

Dudley is lounging on his bed, feet propped up on the mattress and furiously tapping away at his PlayStation controller. And there, on the floor with his legs crossed, an intense expression on his face and a second controller in his hands, is Malfoy.

He’s holding it awkwardly in one hand, using his index finger to jab at the buttons as if punching numbers into a telephone. He glances up at Harry in the doorway briefly, before turning his eyes back to the TV on top of Dudley’s dresser. His eyes flick back almost immediately, however, darting around Harry’s face. His pale eyebrows quirk into an almost-frown before his expression smooths out so quickly Harry assumes he imagined it, and he focuses back on the screen.

“Afternoon, Potter,” he says blandly. Harry closes his gaping mouth but can’t stop staring.

“Use both hands, I told you, you're doing it wrong!” Dudley complains when another loud explosion fills the room.

“Stop bossing me about, Dursley, I am still faring better than you,” Malfoy replies in his best _‘you are inferior’_ voice.

“Fuck off, are you even looking at your side of the screen?” Dudley scoffs, eyebrows drawn together in concentration.

Malfoy’s eyes dart from left to right and his mouth tightens briefly. He then twists his controller to one side, as if moving it physically will move his little animated character on the screen, and jabs at a button repeatedly.

“Oi!” Dudley cries, sitting up in outrage. “You just killed me, you wanker!”

“See, I told you I’m winning,” Malfoy smirks and Dudley calls him a twat and  _laughs._

 _“What the fuck?”_ Harry breathes to himself, still rooted to his spot by the door.

“I still got a better score, even if you are a dirty cheat,” Dudley declares importantly as if his game matters in the slightest.

“Well, I’m sure I still scored better than Potter ever has,” Malfoy says pompously, giving Harry a triumphant look as if him saying it makes it fact. Which is not untrue, considering-

“I've never played.” The words are out of Harry’s mouth before he can think, before he can take them back.

Malfoy gives him a look of confusion. “You haven't? Ever?”

Harry doesn’t respond, fighting an overwhelming urge to flee.

Malfoy seems to take his silence as confirmation and continues. “Why not? Too busy responding to fan mail?” He sniggers, casting the same smirk he shoots his friends whenever he makes a jab at Harry, over to Dudley.

Dudley, however, isn’t looking at him and isn't laughing. He’s staring down at his lap with a mildly pained expression as if he has a stomach ache. He glances up at Harry sheepishly, and Harry realises with dread what he’s about to ask a split second before the boy opens his mouth.

Dudley lifts up his controller. “You wanna-?”

“I’m good,” Harry interrupts shortly, turning on his heel and quickly walking back to his room.

He slams the door shut behind him, breathing heavily. There’s an awful lump in his throat that infuriates him, makes him kick his trunk repeatedly until the pain in his foot makes it go away. He doesn’t _l_ _ike this. He doesn’t want Malfoy here._ Malfoy with his stupid questions and his stupid prying and  _seeing_ Harry’s life outside of Hogwarts. _Living_ Harry’s life outside of Hogwarts. And doing it better than Harry ever did. Being welcomed into the house more than Harry ever was. And why does Harry even care? No, he  _doesn’t_ care.

Harry scrubs his hands over his face and tries very hard not to care.

“Well, that was dramatic.”

Harry lowers his hands with a deep calming breath, ignoring the airy voice by the door and stomping over to his bed. He sits on the edge, reaching down to tug off his trainers and chuck them into a corner.

“Want to talk about it?” Malfoy asks with exaggerated concern - in the voice of a solemn psychiatrist - and steps into the room, closing the door behind him.

Harry blinks down at his socked feet with a strange sense of déjà vu, before forcibly pushing the feeling aside. “Fuck off, Malfoy,” Harry sighs, suddenly very tired.

“Is that any way to speak to a guest?” Malfoy asks, plopping down on his own bed and dragging his trunk in front of him.

Harry looks up to give him a vicious glare, but Malfoy smirks at him and it’s tinged with humour and Harry realises with a start that the boy is  _joking_ with him. Harry has no idea how to respond to that.

“I didn’t think you would be back until later,” Malfoy comments conversationally, fishing out a moleskin journal and sitting back against the wall with a quill. “Missing me?” He asks innocently, eyes trained on the page in front of him. The comment isn’t lost on Harry, who had thrown the same thing at him yesterday.

Harry rolls his eyes. “I was worried you were smashing up my room,” he admits easily - honesty is the best policy, after all.  

Malfoy glances up with a frown. “Why would I do that?”

“Because you’re a brat,” Harry shrugs, matter-of-fact.

Malfoy turns his head to look pointedly around the room. “Not a whole lot to smash up, if that was the case.”

Harry grits his teeth but doesn’t say anything because it's a true enough comment.

“You and Dudley _friends_ now then?” Harry asks instead with a touch of sarcasm, rising to let Hedwig in through the window when she appears and gives the glass a polite tap.

“I wouldn’t go  _that_ far,” Malfoy scoffs, eyeing the owl warily and she swoops over to her cage.  “He’s barely even an acquaintance.”

“Because he’s a muggle?” Harry asks, knowing he’s pushing for a fight but can’t help himself.

Malfoy, incredibly, doesn’t rise to the bait. “No-o,” he rolls his eyes. “Because he’s ghastly.”

Harry turns to give Malfoy his full attention, watching as the blonde scribbles something down in his book, tongue peeking out of the side of his mouth and looking utterly relaxed.

“What are you playing at?” Harry snaps finally, hands on his hips.

Malfoy blinks up at him in bewilderment. “I’m sorry?”

“This whole _‘I’m perfectly content here, muggles are my friends’_ civil bullshit act,” Harry drawls in an imitation of Malfoy’s accent, annoyed.  

Malfoy gives him an appraising look, closing his journal with a snap and sitting up straighter. “Is this because I played a television game with your cousin?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, play all you want!” Harry scoffs in irritated dismissal. “I’m talking about the fact that you’re behaving like little-miss-perfect, sitting inside all day and playing _video games_ and talking to me like-like-“

“Hold on, are you seriously trying to tell me that you’re getting annoyed because I’m choosing to ignore your abysmal attempts to start an argument?” Malfoy laughs incredulously, without any humour. “Grow up, Potter,” he snorts, turning back to his book.

Harry crosses his arms across his chest, widening his stance. “I want to know what you’re up to,” he demands.

Malfoy goes rigid, before standing up in a fluid motion. “You think I’m  _up to something_?” he spits, beginning to look genuinely angry. “Well if that is the case, I better get out of your way or you might be tempted to use disembowelment as an interrogation tactic.” He gives Harry a hard stare, chin jutting out as his book trembles a little in his hand.

Harry sucks in a breath, feeling like he’s been punched in the gut. He bites down on his bottom lip for a moment. “That was an accident-“ he mutters quietly.

“Okay,” Malfoy interrupts too-quickly, eyes unforgiving and burning with rage, very clearly meaning the opposite of  _okay._

“You _were_ up to something then, anyway!” Harry snaps in defence, feeling uncomfortable.

“Ah, yes. So I must be  _now._ That makes perfect sense,” Malfoy scoffs, throwing his book back into his trunk with unnecessary force. “After all, it worked out _so well_ last time.”

“ _Aw_ , I’m sorry you didn’t get more people killed,” Harry consoles sarcastically, livid that Malfoy would even  _think_ to bring up Dumbledore’s death in such a cavalier manner.

Malfoy takes one step towards him, eyes blazing. “Don’t bother trying to make me feel guilty, Potter. You have  _no idea-_ “ he takes a deep breath, eyes darting to the left before snapping back to Harry’s face. “I am well aware of my mistakes,” he admits as if it pains him to do so.

Harry just stares at him, blank-faced and unsympathetic. So what if he’s aware? It’s too late. It's also  _bullshit._

Malfoy lets out a huff of frustration as if reading Harry’s thoughts. “I’m _here now,_ am I not?” he snaps, throwing his arms out wide.

Harry can feel his upper lip curling and he slowly nods. “Yes. You are here. _Hiding.”_

Malfoy shakes his head in apparent amazement. “So what exactly are _you_ doing here then?”

“If I leave now, I will die!” Harry shouts, he can’t believe that he’s getting judged by _Malfoy_ of all people.

“And you think I won’t!?” Malfoy cries, voice rising as he flings an arm out towards the open window. “I am more than aware of the danger I am in, hence why _I’m_ not the one out gallivanting for all hours of the day!”

Not for the first time, Harry wonders exactly what transpired at Malfoy Manor to make the boy pack his things and leave. With Lucius still in Azkaban, it seems unlikely his hasty retreat was influenced completely by his sycophant father. Harry is desperate to ask, but he doesn’t believe for one second Malfoy would tell him the truth. Harry isn’t even sure he  _wants_ to know the truth, whether for self-preservation or blissful ignorance he isn’t sure.   

“No one is stopping you from leaving the house, Malfoy!” Harry points out loudly, flustered.

“No, but _I am._ Because I’m not an idiot with a death wish, unlike _some_ people!” Malfoy leans towards Harry as if to make it very clear exactly who is he talking about.

 _“I CAN’T STAY HERE!”_ Harry yells, voice breaking on the last word. He stops, breathing heavily. “I cant-I-not all day-“ Harry shuts his mouth tightly to stop himself from stammering out any more embarrassing murmurs, clenching his jaw angrily. He _c_ _an’t._ There’s nothing to do here, and when Harry gets bored he starts thinking and when he starts thinking he starts shaking and he can’t breathe properly and-

Malfoy is staring at him with wide eyes. He appears to be thinking deeply and glances down with a nod at the floor, before looking back at Harry with one eyebrow raised. “I get that,” he mutters sardonically, a lightness to his tone that contradicts his too-pale face.

Harry shakes his head in disgust - at himself or Malfoy, he isn’t sure. “No, you don’t.”

Malfoy shoots him an incredulous look, waving his hands around the room and himself pointedly. Harry sighs and accedes his point with a tilt of his head, collapsing down onto his bed, exhausted.

The door opens slightly and Dudley’s face appears in the gap. He gives the two occupants a wary look.

“Mum told me to tell you two to shut the hell up or you won’t get any dinner,” he mumbles in a distracted tone before immediately disappearing to go back to his game.

Malfoy stares at the closed door for a long moment before snorting, “She can hardly _starve_ us.”

Harry shoves his face into his pillow to muffle a slightly-hysterical laugh.


	5. Kiss With A Fist

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If the ship I was travelling on from Southhampton to New York abruptly sunk and I found some debris to float on in the ocean, I would budge up and let Ettie share it, for she has kept me afloat throughout this entire project.
> 
> Again, thank you to everyone who has commented/kudos/bookmarked etc, you would all be on my debris too.

* * *

 

After an uncomfortably silent dinner - just the two of them once again - Petunia declares that as she cooked, they can wash up and honestly that’s probably the fairest statement Harry has ever heard her say in his whole life.

Malfoy disagrees.

“Why doesn’t your half-giant cousin have to help?” He complains, drying a plate with bad grace.

Harry tries to recall if he’s ever seen Dudley do any sort of washing up. It’s a firm no. “Because he’d probably end up accidentally drowning himself in the sink and his mum doesn’t want to risk it,” Harry mutters - which is probably a little true - rinsing a glass under the tap.

Malfoy snorts, snatching the glass when Harry passes it over like the brat he is and never denied.

“And why do we have to do it by hand when that thing does it for us?” Malfoy points at the dishwasher with a scowl.

“Because Dudley broke it this morning,” Harry replies tiredly, not even trying to comprehend how that happened _again._

Malfoy lets out an outraged tut of disapproval, shaking his head at the kitchen door as he leans back against the unit. “Let him drown.”

Harry surprises himself - and Malfoy apparently, if his face is anything to go by - by barking out a startled laugh. He clears his throat a second later, scrubbing at a tough stain inside a pan. “That’s not funny,” Harry mutters.

Malfoy raises his eyebrows at him, smirking pointedly and turns back to face the door, resting his elbows on the unit behind him and dangling the damp tea towel between his fingers.

Harry watches him from the corner of his eye, taking in the elegant line of his neck as he tilts his head back, a picture of ease. Feeling Harry’s eyes, he rolls his head to the side and blinks at him. Harry shoves a plate in his direction, irritated, ignoring the weird little quirk of Malfoy’s lips.

“Let’s just get this finished,” Harry murmurs, using the back of his wrist to push up his glasses before plunging his hands back into the soapy water.

“You know, you and your family really don’t look anything alike,” Malfoy comments suddenly a few minutes of washing and drying later. Harry glances at him, but Malfoy is staring down in concentration as he rubs at a fork. Harry doesn’t think his task really requires a whole lot of concentration, but then again he supposes it’s quite possible the blonde has never done any chores before today.

“So I’ve been told,” Harry says hesitantly after it’s clear Malfoy is waiting for some sort of response.

Malfoy glances at him curiously. “Have you ever wondered if you’re adopted?”

Harry groans and Malfoy grins. “Ha-ha. You’re on a roll today,” Harry snorts, flicking wet fingers in the other boy's direction.

Malfoy snaps the tea towel at him in response. “What can I say, I am witty, well-mannered and wondrous,” he shrugs modestly.

“Only one of those is correct,” Harry says dryly, pulling the plug out of the sink with the satisfaction of a job-well-done.

“Wondrous?” Malfoy smiles with too many teeth, chucking the tea towel onto the unit in a wet heap.

“Worrisome more like,” Harry retorts, rolling his eyes and snatching up the towel, hanging it up to dry.

“Is that it? Are we finished with our manual labour?” Malfoy asks, casting an appreciative eye around the now-spotless kitchen.

“Yep,” Harry nods, wiping his hands on his worn jeans.

 _“Wondrous,”_ Malfoy quips, waggling his eyebrows at Harry and quickly darting from the room before he can get a face-full of wet tea towel.

Harry huffs a laugh, stepping towards the door to pick up the sodden poorly-aimed material. As he does, he catches a sight of his reflection in the fridge door and pauses, the smile on his face dropping slowly as the reality of who put it there hits him like - well, like a wet tea towel to the face.

Harry shakes himself, he’s under no illusions. He knows perfectly well why Malfoy is acting...the way he is. Almost _friendly._ The boy had all but confirmed it earlier. He needs to stay on Harry’s good side - and the Dursley’s for that matter - otherwise he could very well be out on his arse. And out on his arse means pretty much certain death - or so the blonde has said - so Malfoy is hardly going to risk it now is he. So he has to suppress his true nature of being a prejudiced, spoilt, nasty tosser and _behave_ \- and _joke_ apparently.

Harry is grudgingly - a teeny tiny bit - impressed with the almost-effortless facade. But then again, Malfoy _is_ a Slytherin and they take pride in manipulation. At least the snake was _kind of_ upfront about it.

 _Or,_ of course, this could all be part of a bigger master plan and Harry is going to walk upstairs and find Voldemort in his room, Malfoy cheering the fucker on as he blasts Harry out of the window.

Somehow, however, Harry doesn’t believe Malfoy would agree to voluntarily live with him for almost a month even if it did result in Harry’s demise. And if Malfoy truly _has_ switched sides, then he probably doesn’t want Harry to die at all anymore. Because if Harry dies then that means Voldemort lives and then Malfoy really _would_ be in a pickle.

Cheered by this thought - and trying not to think too hard about how bleak his life really is if thoughts of someone _probably_ trying not to murder you for selfish reasons _cheers_ him _-_ Harry chucks the tea towel back onto the unit and heads upstairs. Fuck it, let it dry in a heap.

 

* * *

 

Malfoy is sprawled across his bed, feet propped up on the wall, and jotting things down in his notebook when Harry enters. The blonde has changed into his t-shirt and jogging bottoms ensemble and Harry grabs his own worn but similar combo, happy to get out of his scruffy jeans.

He gets changed quickly, his back to the other boy in the room. After the first night, Harry had thought it childish to go and change in the bathroom like he had something to hide, after all Malfoy certainly has no qualms against stripping in front of Harry willy-nilly, even if he, too, keeps his back to the Gryffindor. Harry certainly doesn’t hide away like a blushing virgin when he gets changed in the common room, so he isn’t going to in his own bedroom either.

“You need to get new clothes, Potter. I haven't seen you wear anything other than those ripped jeans since I got here, you’re showing me up,” Malfoy drawls from behind him as Harry pulls on his t-shirt.

Harry glances over his shoulder to scowl at him - he’s never cared much about his clothes or appearance before and isn’t going to start just because _Malfoy_ has something to say about it - but Malfoy is staring intently at his notebook, cheeks a little flushed.

Harry goes over to the window and opens it a crack, because hey he’s just nice like that. When he turns around again Malfoy is giving him an odd look.

“You’re welcome,” Harry says, rolling his eyes. Malfoy frowns at him in apparent confusion and Harry decides not to press it because he’s tired and you can’t fix a Malfoy in a few days. Well-mannered his arse.

“I like those jeans,” Harry yawns, flopping down at his desk and grabbing a piece of parchment.

“Yes, I can tell. So much so that they come back more beaten up than _you_ do every evening,” Malfoy says airily and Harry pauses in penning a letter to Ron.

Harry opens his mouth and closes it again a second later. He knows Malfoy is endlessly curious about where he goes during the day. And he knows _Malfoy_ knows Harry isn’t going to tell him. So he just shrugs, no idea if Malfoy is even looking at him, and goes back to scribbling complaints about the boy to his friend.

Ron and Hermione, of course, know that Malfoy is here. Ron probably knew before the git had even turned up at Privet Drive, his parents had probably voted for it earlier that day. He's had two very sympathetic letters from them already, and Harry sent back a long list of exasperating quotes that the annoying blonde has said since he got here. Harry appreciates their support, he really does, but every word they send just doesn’t seem _enough_. Has never been enough, not ever, not when he’s stuck here summer after summer.

They haven't said it, but Harry has a feeling that his two friends are together at the Burrow this summer and he tries not to feel jealous about that. Besides, Harry’s got company too. It just happens to be in the form of a wildly gesticulating, sarcastic, pointy albino who has run away from home.

When Harry finishes his letter, he passes it over to Hedwig who has hopped over when she noticed him writing. She gives him a little nip of affection and Harry stands to let her out of the window.

When he turns, Malfoy is watching the owl fly away with a considering look but his face turns blank when he notices Harry looking at him. He sits up and raises his arms above his head, causing a little strip of pale skin to be exposed at his navel and hops off the bed. Without a word, he grabs his washbag from his trunk and heads out of the room.

Harry lets out another yawn, rubbing at his eyes behind his glasses and moves towards his bed. Before he sits, however, he notices Malfoy’s notebook sitting open and face-down on his bed. Harry stares at it, biting the inside of his cheek, curious and wondering suddenly if Remus’ letter is hiding between the pages. Harry listens intently for a moment. Hearing nothing but the sound of running water from down the hall, he snatches up the journal before he can change his mind. Placing one finger in between the pages it’s open on, he quickly flicks through.

The letter isn’t there.

Harry sighs and it about to put the book back down when a small list on the back page makes him pause. Harry grimaces, feeling a little slimy, and glances at the door before looking back down at the page. In an elegant scrawl, it reads;

_Day 1 - jaw, temple (left)_

_Day 2 -  cheek, lip (busted - bottom left)_

_Day 3 - jaw, chin, lip (bottom - reopened, top - swollen)_

Heart thudding, Harry sucks in a deep breath, his tongue prodding at his swollen lips. He can feel the scab from yesterday, the warm coppery line of where it had been split open again earlier when Lucas had-

Harry slams the book shut and throws it back on the mattress, swallowing hard and backing quickly away. He’s about to collapse onto his own bed when the sound of running water stops and restarts his brain, and he looks back at the book in a panic. The _fully closed_ book.

 _“Shit, shit,”_ Harry hisses to himself, diving for it once again as the bathroom door opens. He thumbs rapidly through the pages, not allowing himself to take note of any other words - _why did he look, for fuck's sake what is_ wrong _with him -_ but there is no way of knowing which page Malfoy had been on.

Footsteps are padding down the hall.

 _“Fuck,”_ Harry breathes.

It was somewhere in the middle right? He flicks madly to the middle pages, both sides full of writing. _Surely_ Malfoy had been writing a new entry - _oh please let him of been writing a new entry._ Harry stops when he comes to two empty pages and flips back to the previous ones. The left page is half-covered in writing, the right page bare. He doesn’t have time to think about it any longer - the door is opening - so Harry quickly places the book back on the bed, open and face-down like it was before, and can only pray it’s on the right page and in the right position. He dives back onto his bed just as Malfoy appears behind the door and tries to look normal.

Malfoy doesn’t look at him, just chucks his washbag into his trunk and flops down on top of his covers. Harry sits up slowly and makes a show of stretching, trying to breathe normally, and picks up his own toiletry bag from his desk as he watches the other boy from the corner of his eye. He holds his breath as Malfoy picks up his journal with one hand and reaches over for the quill on his pillow. Then, without looking down, he snaps the journal shut and chucks both items into his trunk.

Harry lets out a slow breath as he sags in relief and bolts from the room and down the hall before Malfoy can notice.

Locking the bathroom door behind him, Harry rests his forehead against the wood and shuts his eyes tight.

_Why would he-why would Malfoy-_

Harry sucks in a deep breath, rolling his forehead back and forth on the cool door as he tries to shove away an overwhelming influx of emotions. He can’t, he can’t-everything is _wrong._ This isn’t how it’s supposed to _be._ He’s meant to do this alone, he’s meant to survive here like he always has, anyway he can, and then push it all aside and _fight._ No one is supposed to see this, the weakness he tries so desperately to hide in the wizarding world. The humiliating reality of the Boy-Who-Lived. Not even Ron and Hermione know the extent, he would rather cut off his own hand than admit to the aching loneliness, the hatred and disgust he is subjected to every day here. How he is forced to use any tactic to make it through the summer without thinking about his responsibilities in the world where he belongs, how he uses the same tactics to ignore his _nothingness_ in the world he doesn’t.

Letting out a shuddering breath, Harry screws his eyes tight in frustration. A voice that sounds suspiciously like Malfoys snaps in his head to _Pull yourself together, Potter._

Harry peels his head from the door and stumbles over to the sink. He glares in the mirror at his bruised face, before turning on the cold tap and letting it run until it’s freezing.

 

* * *

 

_Irritation is licking at Harry’s nerves, his long white fingers drumming a repetitive rhythm into the leather arm of his chair. He stares at the reflection of dancing orange flames in the glass of his tumbler, holding it up to his face as the warm of the fireplace attempts to soothe him. He swirls the amber liquid slowly, watching the surface flicker with yellows and browns._

_“My Lord?”_

_Harry takes a sip, taking a long moment to savour the rich flavour and enjoying the way the man in front of him shifts in his seat at the prolonged silence._

_“I instructed you to come to me when you had found her,” Harry murmurs softly, stilling his tapping fingers and fixing Yaxley with a cold stare over the rim of his glass._

_Yaxley swallows, lowering his own gaze and staring at a point on the carpet near Harry’s feet._

_“Yes, My Lord, however-”_

_“_ Did _you find her?” Harry asks slowly, raising an eyebrow._

_Yaxley takes a breath, then looks back up into Harry’s eyes. “No, My Lord.”_

_“No,” Harry agrees smoothly, tilting his head to one side, eyes flashing._

_Yaxley waits for him to carry on speaking, jaw clenched tightly shut. Harry raises his chin a little in a show of mock encouragement._

_The other man grasps onto it like a lifeline. “We traced her to the village, but after that her signature disappeared,” he explains in a rush. “I have Rookwood out there this very moment, searching-”_

_“And the boy?” Harry interrupts, narrowing his eyes, patience running thin._

_Yaxley shifts again, eyes flicking over to the corner as a soft hiss fills the air. Harry watches the man, eyes hooded._

_“Nothing, My Lord,” Yaxley eventually mutters reluctantly._

_Harry knows this already, of course. Knew as soon as the man stepped into the room, could smell the stench of guilt and fear in the air like stale perfume._

_“And you thought it prudent to request my presence tonight to tell me...nothing?” Harry asks derisively, placing his glass down on the low table next to him as his irritation blooms and twists._

_Yaxley pales. “N-no, My Lord, not nothing! The boy-we traced the boy all the way to London before we too lost his signature, we are lead to believe they aren’t travelling together.”_

_“Of course they are not together you fool!” Harry hisses angrily, leaning forward slightly in his chair. “Do you think them as stupid as you so apparently are?”_

_Yaxley flinches a little at that, eyes warily following Harry’s hand as he pulls his wand from his sleeve. “No, My Lord. I merely wished to ask, how would you have us proceed? With your permission, I can have Wormtail joining Rookwood and I within the hour.”_

_Harry shakes his head. “No. Leave Wormtail and the blood-traitor bitch. She is no threat, she will not be able to hide forever.”_

_Yaxley blinks at him in surprise. “But, forgive me, she knows where we are located-”_

_“Do you doubt my abilities?” Harry glares, tightening his grip on his wand._

_“No-never, My Lord! I simply-”_

_“Do you dare question the power of the precautions I have set?” Harry seethes, leaning closer still to breathe in the fragrant musk of fear radiating off the man._

_Yaxley shakes his head frantically. “N-no, My-”_

_“Do you think me so arrogant as to assume that none of my_ faithful servants,” _Harry spits the words out like an insult, “would ever make such an error as to let a prisoner_ walk out of here unnoticed _with the aid of - supposedly - one of our own_?”

_Yaxley stares with wide eyes at the wall behind Harry’s head, breathing shallowly. “No, My Lord. Forgive me,” he breathes._

_Harry leans back into his chair, curling his lip in disgust at the sight in front of him._

_“Leave the woman for now,” Harry repeats, stroking one long finger down his wand. “Just find the boy.”_

* * *

 

“Potter. _Potter!”_

Harry gasps, eyes snapping open and grabbing for the restrictive hands on his shoulders, head pounding. The hands get tighter and Harry bucks in panic, trying to kick off his covers.

“Stop, it’s me! It’s Malfoy!”

Harry blinks, breathing heavily as wide grey eyes swim into focus above him, dissolving the imagine of Yaxley’s sweating face in front of angry flames. He can still taste the bitter tang of alcohol on his tongue, the burn of it down his throat and pooling in his stomach.

“It’s me,” Malfoy says again, softer.

Harry stares up at the pale face above him, swallowing repeatedly to keep down the bile that threatens to make an unwelcome appearance. Malfoy’s stricken face makes him take a deep stuttering breath, letting it out slowly. He loosens his grip, shoving Malfoy away and sitting up dizzyingly. A horrible and disconcerting mixture of rage and fear lingers, overwhelming him. He hunches over his lap, the pain in his head peaking to excruciating levels. Harry shuts his eyes tight, brushing away an errant tear as it drops down his cheek in irritation.

“Potter-”

 _“Shh,”_ Harry hisses, his head thudding so hard he can feel it in his eyes and ears.

Malfoy sits back, removing his hands from Harry’s shoulders and clenches his jaw.

Harry tries to control his breathing, sucking in deep gulps of air. He tries to think of nothing, putting into practice the outstanding advice from the world's worst teacher-cum-murderer.

Terrified Voldemort can look through his own eyes, a nauseating fear he has after every vision, Harry keeps them firmly shut as he breathes in through his nose and out of his mouth. After a long moment, the pain and anger recede into solely the fear that Harry realises is his alone. Relieved, he scrubs his palms across his face before opening his eyes to see Malfoy sitting on the edge of his bed, face blank as he watches him.

Harry stares at him, ignoring the lick of vulnerability that makes him want to avert his gaze. The conversation he just witnessed bleeds back into his brain and ears and he sucks in a shallow breath.

“Who did you leave with?” Harry whispers, fingers gripping into his bed sheets. He watches Malfoy’s face avidly, noting the slight but sharp incline of his head as if he had dodged a blow, the way his eyes glaze over.

A second later, Malfoy blinks as if his mind was elsewhere. “What?”

“When you left the manor, who did you leave with?” Harry asks again, voice coming out a little hoarse and his eyes unwavering. The word ‘Blood-traitor’ echoes in Harry’s ears and he grips the sheets tighter, a sea of red hair, same shade but all different lengths, comes to mind and his stomach clenches.

A muscle in Malfoy’s jaw twitches and doesn’t answer for so long that Harry starts to suspect he never will. Then, “What were you dreaming about?”

“It wasn’t a dream,” Harry says lowly, feeling raw and exposed as soon as the words leave his mouth.

Malfoy’s eyebrows knit together, giving Harry a look that seems almost fearful before adopting his passive mask again. “What do you mean?” he whispers.

Harry watches him for a strained minute, heart thudding uncomfortably in his chest. Of course, Malfoy wouldn’t know about the vile mental connection Harry shares with Voldemort. Why had Harry just assumed he had, even if only for a second? It doesn’t seem wise on Harry’s part to reveal that particular fact to him. For a multitude of reasons.

“What do you mean?” Malfoy asks again, voice firmer and tinged with a bit of desperation.

“Nothing,” Harry murmurs eventually, exhaustion hitting him and he looks away.

Even if he wanted to tell Malfoy, he doesn’t think he could. The words would get lost somewhere in his throat. Even so, what to say? ‘Hey Malfoy, turns out we _do_ have something in common after all! And although my connection to the Dark Lord is a little more sinister and intrusive, I’m sure you won’t hold it against me, let’s be friends!’ Yeah. No. Harry gets enough weird looks from Ron and Hermione, and _they_ don’t actually hate his guts.

As much as he’s curious to know who the ‘blood traitor’ Voldemort was talking about is, she seems safe enough for now. Harry _hopes_ she’s safe enough for now. And telling Malfoy that the Death Eaters are looking for him is hardly new information. Although, Malfoy could maybe gain some comfort in the knowledge that it seems only _two_ have been assigned the task. Still.

_“Potter-”_

“It was nothing. Go back to sleep, Malfoy,” Harry says tiredly, laying back down before the other can respond and turning his back to him.

Malfoy doesn’t move straight away but sits still for a full minute. Harry stares at the wall in front of his face, barely breathing. Then, almost silently, Malfoy gets up and Harry hears the soft rustling of bed sheets as he slides back under his own covers.

It’s a long while until Harry falls asleep again, and considering the unnatural silence from across the room, he suspects Malfoy is much the same.

 

* * *

 

When Harry wakes the next morning, it’s again to the impatient tapping of an owl outside his window.

He’s also alone.

Pushing himself out of bed, Harry lets in the owl, which takes off as soon as Harry takes the letter from between its claws. He sighs as he looks down at the envelope.

_Mr Draco Malfoy_

Harry taps his fingertips against the parchment, chewing the inside of his cheek as reads Remus’s messy scrawl. Last night’s vision-turn-uncomfortable conversation comes to mind, and Harry decides it’s only fair that he should get to peek a little into Malfoy’s affairs after the blonde had peeked into Harry’s. He turns the envelope over, positioning his finger under the seam. He pauses. _Although_ , Malfoy had been weirdly...considerate about the whole thing. He hadn’t pushed Harry for details when Harry had obviously not wanted to share. Harry digs his thumbnail under the seam of the envelope before dropping his hand completely.

 _“Fucks sake, Harry,”_ he groans under his breath, chucking the letter onto his bed before quickly getting dressed. He grabs his trainers and the letter again before leaving the room.

“-and I completed it before Piers even got it, only took me like three days, too,” Dudley’s voice proudly brags from within the kitchen as Harry steps up to the door.

“Wow, that’s seriously impressive,” Malfoy’s drawl replies, the sarcasm clear as day to Harry but lost on his cousin.

Harry peers into the kitchen silently, careful not to touch the half-closed door. Malfoy and Dudley are sitting opposite at the table; Dudley munching away on a slice of toast as Malfoy sips at a mug of coffee, eyes focused on a book perched in front of him. While Dudley is still dressed in his pyjamas, hair a mess, Malfoy is sporting black jeans and a grey turtleneck, hair immaculate as if he had been up for hours.

“Right? Everyone says the last level is impossible, you know. But I blasted my way through on my first try, no exaggeration,” Dudley says, spraying crumbs across the table.

“I don’t doubt it,” Malfoy murmurs distractedly, using a delicate hand to wipe Dudley’s mess away from the page he’s reading without looking up.

Harry snorts quietly, opening the door and stepping inside.

“Morning all,” he says when two pairs of eyes swivel in his direction. Malfoy almost immediately looks back down at his book, however, jaw twitching. Harry tries not to look at him directly too, fighting down an embarrassed flush. Dudley grunts in reply, taking another bite.

“Here, this just came for you,” Harry murmurs, walking over to the table and dropping the letter next to Malfoy’s book.

Malfoy starts, snatching up the letter with a greedy hand and immediately tucking it into the back page.

“Did an owl bring that?” Dudley asks, grimacing slightly.

“Yep,” Harry smiles widely, plopping down into a seat to shove on his trainers.

“Off out?”

Harry glances up to see Malfoy watching him impassively. Harry nods at him.

“Yeah,” he replies with a hint of challenge.  

Malfoy stares at him with hooded eyes, and it’s a little unnerving to be honest so Harry looks back down to focus on his laces.

“Be out long?” Malfoy asks a minute later and Harry becomes instantly suspicious.

“Why? You planning something?” Laces tied, Harry looks up at him with narrowed eyes.

Malfoy blinks slowly before going back to his book. “Just curious,” he shrugs with one shoulder.

Harry watches him for a second, before deciding it’s too early for a game of Lets Analyze Malfoy and stands with a stretch.

“See you later,” he mutters, eyes still on the blonde.

Malfoy waves dismissive fingers in his direction, turning the page with his other hand. Dudley again grunts something incoherent and Harry ignores him.

“Right,” Harry sighs when Malfoy continues reading and heads out of the room.

 

* * *

 

“Someone is staying with us at the moment,” Harry blurts, kicking off the ground to swing higher.

On the swing next to him, Lucas spins in the air, the chains holding up his seat groaning as they untangle. “Oh?”

“I go to school with him,” Harry explains vaguely, sticking his legs out in front of him to propel his body upwards.

“A friend of yours?” Lucas asks, twirling madly as the chains straighten out once more and jerking from side to side for a moment.

“No,” Harry snorts. “We-I mean we hate each other?” It comes out more of a question than Harry is comfortable with.

“Are you asking me?” Lucas turns his head to smirk at him, digging his feet into the dirt to still his seat completely.

“Apparently,” Harry chuckles wryly, swinging higher until his stomach clenches with every downward lurch.

“Why is he staying with you if you hate each other?” Lucas frowns, shifting to his side and slipping one leg over the seat so he sits straddling the rubber, holding onto the chain in front of his face with both hands. His head tilts back and forth as he follows Harry’s body.

“Uh. It’s complicated,” Harry stumbles. “He-he got kicked out of his house,” he winces a little, turning his head towards the sky to hide his expression. Harry wonders what propelled him to start this conversation in the first place. After all, he doubts Lucas cares much about some guy who is staying at the house of some other guy who he makes out with occasionally. Regardless of how very _stressed the fuck out_ Harry is, he’s fairly sure that this topic of conversation is stepping over the line into something _substantial_ , thus breaching the nonverbal contract of whatever the hell the two of them are doing.

“And that’s your responsibility, how?” Lucas scoffs, resting his cheek against the chains.

“It isn’t,” Harry concedes with a tilt of his head. “It’s safer,” he mutters a moment later, letting his legs flop in the air to start slowly descending back to the ground.

“His parents are dicks?” Lucas’s face twists into an over-exaggerated grimace.

Harry snorts. “You could say that.”

“Doesn’t he have any friends he could stay with?” Lucas frowns, biting at the skin of his thumb.

“No, it’s-yes. I mean, it’s complicated,” Harry says again, wishing he hadn’t brought it up. He stops his swaying by digging his shoes into the ground.

“Where is he now?”

Harry shrugs. “At home.”

“Does he-”

“Can we stop talking about this now?” Harry interrupts snappishly, scowling at his trainers, irritated by all the questions.

 _“You_ brought it up,” Lucas grumbles and Harry sighs, turning towards him sheepishly.

“I know. Sorry.”

Lucas rolls his eyes. “I’m sure you’ll survive. He can’t be staying _that_ long.”

Harry is suddenly very aware of how long he has left until he is to leave Privet Drive. Lucas is right, it’s only a couple more weeks. Although the other boy probably assumes it’s till the end of the summer, Harry feel reluctant to tell him he’s going to leave forever once he turns seventeen. He’ll probably never see Lucas again after that. Does Lucas deserve to know? Harry looks at him, his freckled face and warm eyes and curly hair, and feels a little lousy. He’ll tell him, Harry decides. Just...later.

“I’ll survive,” Harry agrees quietly.

 

* * *

 

An hour later, Harry finds himself dragged into their little den, trembling with anticipation. Lucas pins him to one small wall, hands gripping either side of his face as he leans across to force their lips together. Harry groans in relief, mind going blissfully blank. They slide down the wall, legs tangling together in the dirt.

Lucas scrambles onto his lap, rutting uncoordinated against him with small, sharp thrusts.

“I like you, Harry,” he murmurs into Harry’s mouth.

Harry grunts in agreement, biting at Lucas’ bottom lip.

Lucas pulls back slightly, fixing Harry with an incomprehensible look.

“I really like you,” he repeats softly, and Harry frowns, leaning up to press his lips back to the other boy’s. Lucas kisses him back for a second before pulling away again.

Harry huffs. “I like you too,” he says in a rush, would say anything to get Lucas’ lips back on his and leans forward again.

The hands on either side of Harry’s face tightens, holding him in place before he can make contact. Harry blinks and focuses on the face above him. Lucas' cheeks dimple in a smile, and it’s small and sweet and so very much unlike the smirks he usually throws at Harry.

“Good,” Lucas whispers. Then, very slowly, he leans back in and kisses Harry with a gentleness he hasn’t portrayed before.

Confused, Harry allows it for a second before trying to add a little more force. Again, the fingers tighten on his cheeks and the lips retreat for a moment before nipping gently at Harry’s mouth.

 _What is he doing?_ Harry thinks, pulling back to look at Lucas’s face. His eyes are closed, expression soft. Lucas has stilled his grinding hips, resting his weight against Harry’s chest. He kisses Harry again, once. Darts his tongue out to lick a soft stripe onto Harry’s top lip.

Sudden panic engulfs Harry, and he jerks his head back, eyes wide. _No, this isn’t-_ Harry shoves at Lucas’ chest, sending the boy sprawling onto the ground.

Lucas grunts, eyes snapping open and wounded. Panicking, Harry forces a strained smirk and leans over him to press a hard kiss to his mouth, reaching up with one hand to tug at his hair.

“Tag, you’re it,” Harry mutters with far more confidence than he feels, and heaves himself up and darts from the den in one swift movement.

He jogs away from the climbing frame, heart thudding uncomfortably. What the hell was that? Lucas has never kissed him like _that_ before. Harry hadn’t even considered the possibility he ever _would_. As Harry approaches the swings, guilt begins to settle in. Pushing the boy away was a bit cowardly, he can admit, but he just didn’t-

Arms suddenly wrap around his waist and the next thing he knows, Harry is tipping over and tumbling to the ground, a heavy body falling onto his back, knocking the wind out of him.

“Bastard,” a breathless voice mutters in his ear, but Harry can hear the grin in Lucas’ voice and relief floods through him. He twists and is met with a sharp slap to his cheek, unsetting his glasses.

 _This_ Harry can do. He deflects the next blow and sends a punch towards the boy's jaw, sending Lucas flying to the right. Harry turns again, scrambling away with a hysterical huff of laughter on all fours, feeling hands grab his ankles to tugs him back. Harry kicks behind him blindly, making contact with something solid and hearing Lucas grunt in response. Harry tries and fails to get his feet under him, fingers clawing at one leg of his jeans. Lucas dives onto Harry’s back again, his heavy weight pinning Harry to the grass. Harry can feel the boy panting into the back of his neck and bucks, trying to throw him off.

Adrenaline is coursing through his body now, relying on instinct alone to get away. _Yes. This is what he needs, this is what he wants._

Lucas grabs a fistful of dark hair and pulls Harry’s head back, slamming it back into the soft ground. Stars swim across Harry’s vision, and he tries to twist again, reaching behind him to grab one arm holding him down. He finds Lucas’ elbow and slaps the palm of his hand into the inner crease, causing the boy the crumple downwards on one side. Grinning in triumph, Harry finds leverage with one shoe and prepares himself to roll away.

Before he can undertake his manoeuvre however, the weight on his back is abruptly gone and his back cools from the sudden loss of body heat. He hears Lucas cry out in alarm, voice further away, and as Harry rolls onto his back he hears another voice shout;

_“What the fuck!?”_

Harry stills, breathing heavily, and stares up at Malfoy’s enraged face hovering over him, a halo of white surrounding his blonde hair from the sun behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Review pls, I'm a slut for attention.


	6. Is this the guy?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If Ettie needed help assembling her new BRYGGJA from Ikea I would, you know...I would help. (i'm sorry that one was weak I am tired but ily)
> 
> Sorry this is a little later than usual, but know I would build all of y'alls BRYGGJA's single-handedly. Even if you had lost the instruction manual.
> 
> <3

* * *

 

Harry doesn’t think he’s ever felt so small. He stays still and silent, laying in the dirt while Malfoy towers over him like a furious teacher, hands on his hips. He feels himself shrinking inwards, a cocktail of shame and embarrassment bubbling inside him as if a dirty secret of his has been discovered. Well, in a way he supposes is _has_ , but why he feels this way when it’s _Malfoy_ who has discovered it, he doesn’t quite understand. And that’s irritating.

Harry grabs hold of his indignation with two hands, who the hell is Malfoy anyway? What’s it to _him_ if Harry enjoys spending his time rolling around and fighting with a muggle? Even when it usually leads into-

 _Oh god._ Did Malfoy see everything? He can’t have done, not with the den’s flimsy walls hiding them from sight. Whether he _heard_ anything though, is another story. Panic sets in and Harry can’t stop himself from glancing over to the den guiltily. _Guilty? Why does he feel_ guilty? Harry mentally shakes himself, turning back to glare up at Malfoy, who hasn’t moved a muscle and seems to still be waiting for a reply, looking about one second away from tapping his foot. Indignation flares up, strong and gratefully, and Harry tries to convince himself that this entire situation is beneath him. Because, really, who the hell cares what Malfoy thinks? The blonde isn’t even supposed to _be_ here, anyway. Speaking of…

“What the hell are you doing here?” Harry demands angrily, scrambling up from the ground. He reaches around Malfoy and holds out a hand to help Lucas up, who is staring at Malfoy with wide eyes. Malfoy’s expression turns incredulous as he watches Harry pull the other boy to his feet.

“Is this what you have been doing every day?” Malfoy asks loudly, giving Lucas a dirty look. “What the fuck _is_ this?”

Harry drops Lucas’ hand and turns to scowl at Malfoy. “What are you doing here?” he demands again, ignoring the questions. He glances towards the open park gate. “Did you _follow me?”_

“Yes,” Malfoy nods once, shameless, tilting his chin up in challenge. “Yes, I did.”

Harry lets out a bark of disbelief, shaking his head, irritation growing into out-right anger. “Why? Get bored of playing video games with Dudley?” he spits out.

“Wait, is this…?” Lucas pipes up, gesturing to Malfoy with one hand and pausing when the blonde turns towards him with narrowed eyes. Lucas looks back at Harry and continues, lower, “Is this the guy?”

 _“The guy?”_ Malfoy mocks in a deep voice, scoffing and giving Harry a hooded look that’s half amused and half insulted.

“Oh, stop it,” Harry snaps at him. “Yes, it is,” he mutters to Lucas, eyes darting between them.

“You’ve been talking about me? Potter, I’m so flattered,” Malfoy smiles nastily, holding a hand up to his heart.

Harry rolls his eyes. “What are you doing here?” he insists again, widening his stance with his fists on his hips, hoping he’s coming across as authoritatively as he imagines in his head.

“I followed you. I thought we had already covered that?” Malfoy states into the air, glancing around as if some higher being is watching them and will send a reply in the wind, before turning to give Harry a look like he’s an idiot.

“Yes, I know that thank you,” Harry says shortly. “I meant, why?”

“Curiosity. Boredom,” Malfoy shrugs. “Take your pick.”

“What happened to, ‘ _I’m not the idiot with a death wish, Potter’_?” Harry snaps in a poor imitation of Malfoy’s accent.

“What?” Lucas mutters in alarm, wide eyes flicking from Harry to Malfoy, and back again. They both ignore him.

“Oh, come on Potter,” Malfoy scoffs in irritation, gesticulating wildly with one hand. “You come back every evening more black and blue than a dart frog, did you _really_ think I wouldn’t be curious? _Me?”_

Harry squints at him, the list he stumbled across in Malfoy’s journal the night before coming to mind and he swallows, feeling out of his depth. There is always the possibility that the list had absolutely nothing to do with Harry and Malfoy simply enjoys writing down the result of random violence because he’s a little psychopath. And Harry would believe that if he only possessed half a brain cell. But he doesn’t. Unfortunately. The fact that Malfoy has been documenting Harry’s injuries could still be evidence that he’s a little psychopath, of course, but for some reason, Harry doesn’t think he starting writing it for the sole entertainment of something to refer back to and laugh evilly about. And _that’s_ the thought that makes Harry feel utterly undone and confused.

“It’s none of your business,” Harry says finally, uncomfortable.

“Hold on, let me catch up here,” Lucas says loudly, taking a step forward. Harry and Malfoy turn to him distractedly. “So, you’re the guy staying with Harry at the moment?” Lucas asks Malfoy with a suspicious look.

Malfoy looks Lucas up and down slowly before nodding with raised eyebrows. Harry glares at him, not appreciating the judgmental look on his face.

“Okay,” Lucas nods reasonably, “Well, Harry does have a point. How _is_ it any of your business what he gets up to?” he asks calmly. Harry looks at Malfoy quickly, torn between appreciating Lucas’ backup and rightly concerned about what exactly Malfoy could say. He highly doubts the Slytherin has ever actually met a muggle before, let alone had the experience of having to keep the Statute of Secrecy intact. And Harry really doesn’t think Remus would appreciate getting called over to cast an obliviate when the two of them aren’t supposed to ever leave the house.

Malfoy doesn’t spare Harry a glance but instead moves to face Lucas fully, blinking rapidly as if the question is both incomprehensible and offensive. “I’m sorry, who the hell are you?” he asks pleasantly.

“I’m Harry’s boyfriend,” Lucas states, matter-of-fact.

Harry chokes on an involuntary sharp inhale as Malfoy turns towards him with a look of incredulity. Lucas stares at Harry expectantly.

“Um,” Harry says eloquently.

Malfoy’s expression shifts into something unreadable - which is never a good sign - and one side of his mouth twitches. Harry shifts on his feet, fighting the blush threatening to stain his cheeks. By the considering look Malfoy is now giving him, he doesn’t think he’s succeeded.

Harry would much rather literally _anyone_ was here right now witnessing his involuntary outing as...gay? Bisexual? Honestly, Harry hasn’t really given it much thought, purely because the whole thing gives him a giant headache, and he would rather not have to worry about his sexuality while so many other things that are far more important are in motion at the moment - like the very real and impending _war_ that he has to fight in. Not that Harry tries to think about that too much anyway, better to save up all those fun emotions for his crippling night terrors.

After a long uncomfortable silence, Malfoy lets out a little scoff and finally looks away to fix his pale eyes on Lucas. “Oh, you are, are you?” he smirks at him but with surprising hardness.

“Yes,” Lucas challenges.

Harry coughs quietly into his fist, then immediately shrinks back when two sets of eyes swivel back to his face.

“Some _boyfriend,_ Potter,” Malfoy scoffs again, “I mean, I _certainly_ have always wanted my significant other to repeatedly smash my face into the ground.”

“That can be arranged,” Harry growls at him, trying to ignore both the relationship status Lucas has prescribed even though they’ve never talked about it and the way Lucas is looking at him with a little frown.

“Look, you have no idea what me and Harry have going on here,” Lucas snaps, taking a little sidestep so he’s shoulder-to-shoulder with Harry. “It’s bigger than you could ever understand. You _wouldn’t_ understand.”

Malfoy looks very deliberately between the duo, top lip curling into a sneer that Harry - he only now realises - hasn’t seen since that first night Malfoy arrived.

“No. I suppose I really wouldn’t,” he murmurs quietly, tone icy. His eyes stray on Harry again, expression twisted in mild disgust.

Harry blinks, stomach clenching at the implication. A fire ignites in his chest very suddenly, burning up his throat and towards his head.

Lucas is nodding like he’s won a small battle. “So you have no right to pass any sort of-”

“Is that was this is about?” Harry interrupts him loudly, taking a step forward. Malfoy gazes back at him impassively.

“Is this about, what?” he asks blandly.

“You’re bothered because he’s a boy?” Harry demands, waving a hand in Lucas’ direction.

Malfoy jerks his head back like he’s caught a whiff of a bad smell, mouth falling open. He stares at Harry for a second longer before abruptly bursting out into a peal of laughter.

Harry watches, bemused, as Malfoy nearly doubles over, pretending to wipe away tears of mirth from his cheeks. “Oh, Potter,” he snorts, cracking up again before he can continue.

“What? _What?”_ Harry shouts in frustration, crossing his arms across his chest defensively.

“You think I’m homophobic, is that what you’re getting at?” Malfoy chuckles, but his eyes are back to slates of ice.

“Well, aren’t you?” Harry snaps, not surprised in the least if Draco Malfoy - worlds biggest bigot - would have a problem with gays. Harry suspects that had he flicked to the right page in Malfoy’s journal, he probably would have come across a long list of ‘ _Everyone I Hate_ _’_ \- annotated with little stars and hearts - and bullet-pointed under ‘ _Mudbloods’_ and ‘ _Harry Potter’_ would be; ‘ _The Gays’._

Malfoy’s laughter dies down and he fixes Harry with a truly poisonous look. “No. I am not.” His voice has hardened into something frosty, a stark contrast from a second ago.

Harry just shrugs like this means nothing, the gesture clearly saying _‘Good for you’_ and Malfoy narrows his eyes even more.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Malfoy spits, clearly enraged.

“Oh, fuck off!” Harry shouts. “As if it would come as a surprise if _you_ weren't!”

“And what exactly is that supposed to mean!?”

“You know precisely what I mean!”

“Why don’t you just go back home?” Lucas shouts over them, shoving himself in front of Harry and fixing Malfoy with a hard look. “Oh, wait. You _can’t,_ can you _.”_

Malfoy freezes and Harry feels like a bucket of ice water has been dumped over his head. He turns to Lucas in disbelief, spying a nasty little smile on the boy’s usually soft face.

“You _told_ him?” Malfoy hisses, and Harry looks back towards him, shaking his head quickly.

“No, I-”

“That’s right, Harry told me all about how your parents kicked you out,” Lucas continues, warming to the subject. “Hardly surprising, now I’ve met you.”

“Lucas-” Harry begins with a deep frown but is cut off when Malfoy, face white, makes a sudden movement towards his pocket.

Harry dives at him in panic, grabbing his forearm in a tight grip. Malfoy flinches away from his hand like he’s been burnt, breathing heavily as he glares viciously at him, eyes full of contempt.

“Don’t you fucking touch me,” Malfoy snarls, but he stops reaching for his wand. Harry takes a hasty step back but stays within arms-reach as Malfoy flicks his eyes over to Lucas again, a look of pure hatred on his face. “You don’t fucking know me, you’re nothing but a dirty little mug-”

“Malfoy, shut up!” Harry shouts desperately, disappointment flooding through him and not stopping to try and analyse why that is. He _knew_ Malfoy hadn’t just magically changed overnight. He shouldn't be surprised. He _isn’t-_

“A what?” Lucas demands angrily, taking a step towards him. “A dirty little, _what?”_

Harry pushes him back roughly. “Fucking _stop_ , both of you!”

“Harry, he-” Lucas begins in a whine.

“Isn’t your concern,” Harry interrupts firmly, sending a glare over his shoulder at Lucas who gives him a look of betrayal. “Drop it.”

“Why are you defending him!?” Lucas cries in outrage, jabbing one finger in Malfoy’s direction who shoots him a wide toothy grin in response.

“I’m not!” Harry barks. “I’m just-this isn’t-fuck!” Harry throws his arms up in frustration, everything he can’t say trying to slip past his lips. Everything he definitely _doesn’t want_ to say. No one was ever supposed to know about Lucas. Least of all fucking Draco Malfoy. Lucas and he were meant to just exist together for a short while until Harry had to leave. It wasn’t anything he was supposed to _think_ about, to worry about. It was supposed to be simple. Harry clenches his jaw tight, pinching the bridge of his nose and trying to control his breathing, squeezing his eyes closed.

A soft touch on his arm makes him look up in surprise. Lucas stands in front of him, eyebrows pulled together in concern. Harry stares at him, at his warm brown eyes and the dimple in his cheek when he offers a small lopsided smile. God. _How naive have I been?_ Harry thinks to himself. Lucas had called Harry is _boyfriend._ Is that really what was happening here? Spending all day together for almost two weeks, sharing ice cream and kisses. Sure, they don’t _talk_ much, not about anything real anyway, but that’s what Harry wanted. He thought that’s what Lucas wanted too.

Harry has no idea what his face is doing, but Lucas’ small smile drops into a grimace and he pats Harry on the arm again, once, before moving to step away. Without thinking, Harry reaches out to halt him, fingers gripping the arm of his t-shirt. Lucas turns back with raised eyebrows, that dimpled smile reappearing slowly. He opens his mouth to speak and Harry truly has no idea what he is going to say - and never will because Draco Malfoy exists and obviously can’t handle not being the centre of attention for longer than thirty seconds at a time;

“Ugh, how touching.”

Lucas’ face, where a second ago was charming, twists into something rather unattractive and Harry drops his hand quickly, turning to glare at Malfoy who is watching them with thinly veiled distaste.   

“I think he’s outstayed his welcome, don’t you agree, Harry?” Lucas declares importantly with a sniff.

Harry stares at Malfoy, who stares back at him with a blank expression. Although Lucas is obviously - and oh so subtly - implying Malfoy should go back to Privet Drive, the weight of everything unsaid is heavy between them. Harry knows Malfoy is thinking the same thing. That Harry has the power to kick Malfoy out of the safety of the wards, one little word to the Order - that Malfoy attacked him or the Dursleys - and he would be gone. And alone. And dead within a week.

And judging from the way Malfoy raises his chin a little and sets his jaw as if steeling himself, he seems to truly expect Harry to do it.

Harry sucks in a breath of disbelief. “Do you really think I would do that?” he breathes in outrage.

Malfoy blinks in surprise as if Harry had read his thoughts. His mouth twitches, eyes darting across Harry’s face before shrugging casually in a show of bravado. “It would be your call,” he murmurs.

“Harry-”

“Don’t try and play a fucking martyr, Malfoy, it doesn’t suit you,” Harry snaps harshly over Lucas’ complaint.

“Pot, kettle, black,” Malfoy huffs with a dry laugh, though his rigid shoulders relax slightly.

 _“Harry-”_ Lucas begins again, but he’s interrupted again by the loud bang of a car backfiring in the distance, making them all jump.

Malfoy turns towards the sound in alarm, reaching for his pocket again. Harry darts forward and snatches his wrist to stop him once more and Malfoy turns wide grey eyes towards him, trying to tug his hand free in desperation.

“Potter!” he cries in panic.

“It’s nothing, it was a car,” Harry tries to explain lowly, wrestling with the flailing limb and narrowly avoiding getting toppled over, surprised at Malfoy’s unexpected strength considering how thin he is.

Malfoy darts wild eyes around the park, practically trembling as he tries to pry Harry’s fingers from his wrist. “Get off!” he snarls, jabbing a pointy elbow into Harry’s side and making him grunt in pain. Harry, somehow, manages to keep hold of the thin wrist and shakes him roughly.

“Stop it! It was a car backfiring, that’s all!” Harry shouts, grabbing for his other wrist when Malfoy poorly aims a closed fist towards his head.

“Let go, you’re going to get us killed!” Malfoy yells in terror, utterly undone, trying to bodily wrench himself away from Harry’s grip.

Understanding Malfoy is beyond listening to reason, his head swivelling from left to right as if expecting the Dark Lord himself to emerge from the sparse bushes, Harry let’s go abruptly, causing the blonde to stumble backwards and almost fall on his arse. Malfoy steadiest himself with impressive grace and immediately whips out his wand, brandishing it in front of him as he turns in a quick circle, scanning the area with shallow breaths. Harry darts a quick look at Lucas, who is watching Malfoy with an expression that clearly indicates he thinks he’s mad.

Making a quick decision, Harry blurts to him, “I’ll see you tomorrow,” before grabbing Malfoy’s elbow and dragging him away.

“Harry! What the fuck?” Lucas yells at their retreating backs in bafflement. Harry waves a distracted hand in the air, shoving Malfoy through the gate.

“Tomorrow!” Harry calls over his shoulder in promise, ignoring the way Malfoy is spitting swear words at him like a wild cat, and marches him down the street.

 

* * *

 

“Unhand me!”

Harry kicks the front door closed behind them, finally letting go of Malfoy’s arm who rubs at it indignantly with a scowl.

“Did you _have_ to manhandle me all the way back?” he snaps irritably, tucking his hair behind his ears. Harry hadn’t noticed before how much longer it is than he’s used to. The last time Harry had seen Malfoy - that awful night Harry tries very hard to not think about and isn’t going to now - it had been it’s usual slicked back and cropped style if a little dishevelled from all the attempted murder. It seems that since then, however, he’s abandoned his usual grooming routine, even while still living at home with his mother, and has left his hair to grow naturally. Harry is a little fascinated to note the surprising waves and kinks that Malfoy must have spelled straight during school, the way each strand almost become curls where they brush his cheekbones.

Harry catches himself staring at the blonde locks, suddenly extremely aware he’s never given so much thought regarding someone else’s hair before. Not even Ginny’s. Harry internally shakes himself.

“I wouldn't have had to if you weren't waving your wand around like a nut case, two seconds away from hexing any muggle who happened to walk past us!” Harry hisses pointedly, glaring down at Malfoy’s hand until he rolls his eyes and shoves his wand back into his pocket, seemingly a lot calmer now that they’re safely back within the confines of the house and wards.

“I thought you couldn’t do magic?” Dudley asks in alarm, head poking around the corner at the end of the hall, obviously coming to see who had just loudly come through the door.

“We can’t,” Harry says shortly, heading up the stairs.

“We didn’t hex anyone, don’t worry,” he hears Malfoy say in a tone that would suggest he’s talking to a nervous dog rather than a person. “Potter’s just being a knobhead,” Malfoy continues, a little louder and obviously aimed towards Harry’s retreating back.

Harry bites his tongue and storms into his bedroom, throwing himself on his bed covers and kicking off his shoes. He manages to revel in the peace for approximately three seconds before Malfoy barges into the room and shuts the door behind him. Harry groans into his pillow.

“Go play with Dudley, why don’t you,” he grumbles, waving dismissive fingers in Malfoy’s direction.

“Are you _mentally unhinged?_ ”

Harry sits up and glares at Malfoy, who stands in the middle of the room with an unimpressed look on his face, arms folded. “Excuse me?”

“You do realise, I hope, that this little _liaison_ you have going on with that muggle boy is completely fucked up?” he asks in a patronising tone, over-pronouncing the F.

Harry straightens his shoulders and crosses his arms. “Because he’s a muggle?”

“Oh, for Merlin's sake, Potter, grow up,” Malfoy groans, all-suffering. “Not because he’s a muggle, because he was trying to crack your head open!” He holds out both hands, miming smashing something round repeatedly against thin air with an over-exaggerated vicious expression.

Harry narrows his eyes, rather bored of this topic now. “Why do you care?” he asks tiredly.

Malfoy blinks and stays silent for a second. “I don’t,” he says eventually, reaching up with one hand to scratch the side of his neck.

“ _Sounds_ like you care,” Harry points out blandly.

Malfoy huffs and rolls his eyes, dropping his hand. “Okay, then, yes. Yes I do care. I care because if this muggle moron _kills you,_ then where the hell does that leave me?” he snaps. “Hm? Any takers?” He looks expectantly around Harry’s room like a teacher looking around at his students.

“Oh, stop it,” Harry scoffs, irritation peaking.

“Dead!” Malfoy cries in triumph, pointing to the empty space in Harry’s desk chair. “Thank you, Miss Granger! I would, indeed, be dead! Ten points to Gryffindor!” He claps his hands with a big proud smile.

The use of Hermione’s name coupled with the guilt trip invokes something dark and angry in Harry and he shoots to his feet, “Oh just _fuck off!_ That is _not_ my responsibility, you got yourself into this situation! You are not supposed to _be here!”_ he yells.

“Well here I am,” Malfoy declares grandly, spreading his arms out wide on either side of him. “What are you going to do about it? Kick me out?” he presses, dropping his arms back down almost immediately.

“No,” Harry snarls.

“Why?” Malfoy challenges, raising his eyebrows.

“What do you mean, why?” Harry scoffs angrily, shifting his weight.

“Why aren’t you going to kick me out?” he needles insistently, eyes intense.

Harry lets out a puff of air, stalling for a second as he gets his thoughts together. “What are you trying to prove here, Malfoy?” he demands uneasily, waving his hand.

“Answer the question,” Malfoy shrugs, unaffected.

Harry clenches his jaw, tossing his head to one side before looking back to the pointy git with a glare. “Okay then, because I would probably get in trouble if I did.”

Harry knows this isn’t entirely accurate, it bothers him to think how much he would let Remus and the Order down if he kicked Malfoy out, plus the guilt he would feel wondering if he had just sentenced the blonde to his death. But he isn’t about to admit all that to Malfoy.

Malfoy smirks and nods as if expecting that and is weirdly pleased by the response as if he’s just proven a point.

Irritated by this - as he has no idea what point Malfoy was _trying_ to prove - Harry takes on a different tactic and taunts, “What do you want me to say? That I don’t want you to die? That I would care if you did?”

Malfoy doesn’t say anything, just raises his eyebrows in a condescending manner.

Harry huffs and crossing his arms. “Okay, alright. No, Malfoy, as much as this may come as a surprise, I don’t _actually_ wish death upon you. I never did.” He hadn’t really meant to say the last bit, but it’s out now and it’s true so Harry just stands there and pretends to be completely sure of himself.

Malfoy, however, seems to find this rather funny and lets out a humourless chuckle. “Oh really?”

“Yes, really,” Harry frowns, peeved by this reaction after his little confession.

“Not even when you slashed open my chest and left me to bleed out on the floor?” Malfoy throws out, no longer smiling.

Harry sucks in an incensed breath through his teeth, hands clenching into trembling fists as the horrific memory replays in his mind. The absolute terror when he had understood what he had done, what that spell actually did. The crimson streams pooling from Malfoy’s torso and puddling around his so-very-still body, grey eyes closed but chest heaving in panic as he tried to breathe through the pain. The reality that he could have just _killed_ someone, causing Harry to stay rooted to the spot for a long moment, legs refusing to move closer or away as he had tried to comprehend how Malfoy could go from spitting curses towards him one second, then lay dying on the cold floor the next.  

“That’s not fair,” Harry whispers.

Malfoy cocks his head to one side. “How, pray tell? Is that not _exactly_ what happened?” he inquires spitefully, storming over to his trunk and pulling off his boots, chucking them inside.

“I didn’t know what that spell did!” Harry exclaims loudly, following Malfoy with his eyes as the boy crouches down next to the trunk and starts rummaging inside.

“Convenient,” Malfoy mutters, head disappearing for a moment into the depths of the case.

“And I did _not_ leave you there, Snape came in and told me to leave!” Harry points out firmly, stomping the short steps across the room to stand over him. In his panic at the time, he was just grateful that an adult had walked in to help, regardless of who it had been. Thinking back, it’s not surprising Snape had been the one to create such a dark curse.

Malfoy doesn’t look up but continues rummaging with heavy hands. “Is that so?” he mutters disinterestedly.

“ _You_ cursed me first! You tried to _Crucio_ _me_ if you’ve forgotten that little detail!” Harry snaps, annoyed by Malfoy’s sudden impassivity.

At this, however, Malfoy glances up at him with a bland look. “Did I? Shame I missed.”

Harry sees red and he has to physically restrain himself from tackling the boy to the ground. His clenched fists twitch in the desire to lash out, the natural instinct to _attack_ that he has always - somewhat - had better control of until these last couple of weeks. In an act of self-preservation, he takes a hasty step backwards to distance himself from temptation. _How dare-how_ dare Malfoy make such a comment when he, who along with the rest of the student body by this point, knows full well what Harry had to endure in that graveyard. That _pain_ , that excruciating simulation of white-hot knives piercing your skin over and over again, Harry will never forget it. The screams that tore from his throat that were impossible to contain forever echoed in his ears.

“That’s not funny,” Harry hisses, livid.

Malfoy blinks slowly up at him. “I’m not laughing.”

“Have _you_ ever experienced a Crucio?” Harry rasps, voice wavering.

“Yes,” Malfoy says this in such a matter-of-fact way that Harry wouldn’t believe him, if not for the cold unwavering look in his eyes.

Harry swallows and watches in silence as Malfoy stares at him for a second longer before returning back to his trunk. He immediately produces his journal, making Harry think he was prolonging his search on purpose as an excuse not to look at him. Malfoy stands and brushes past him, sitting cross-legged on his bed and opening it. Harry stands there, feeling like an idiot.

“That night. In the bathroom…” Harry begins quietly, taking a deep breath before continuing, “I only wanted to _talk_ to you, Malfoy. _You_ drew your wand first.”

Malfoy twitches at this and snaps his head up to send Harry a sneer. “Oh, get off your high horse, Potter, don’t try and pretend that if _I_ was the one who had walked into that bathroom to see _you…”_ he cringes here, pausing to find the right words and clearly uncomfortable, “ _in that state_ \- you wouldn't have done the exact same thing. We weren't exactly _friends_.”

“And we are now?” Harry scoffs.

“No,” Malfoy states shortly.

“No,” Harry agrees just as shortly.

Silence spreads between them, heavy and uncomfortable, and when Malfoy looks back down to his book, Harry eventually steps backwards and sinks onto the edge of his bed.

Nothing is heard for a long time except the flicking of pages. Harry rubs his palms across his face, feeling hollow.

“I can’t forgive you for what you did. That night in the tower,” Harry says quietly, dropping his hands down to his lap and glancing back towards the blonde across from him, who is staring down at his journal with unmoving eyes.

Malfoy raises his head slowly, face twisting in outrage and disgust. “I don’t _want your forgiveness_ you sanctimonious bastard,” he breathes harshly. “I don’t _need you_ to forgive me.”

Harry prickles and narrows his eyes. “Well that’s good then, I suppose.”

Malfoy closes his book with a snap and leans forward, fire in his eyes. “You can fuck right off with your holier-than-thou attitude, I am so sick to death of bearing witness to it. You are no better than me.”

Harry lets out a bark of laughter. “Ha! I don’t claim to be a saint but _really?”_

Malfoy shakes his head, top lip curling in a sneer. “Fuck you. You have no idea how hard it’s-” he stops and closes his eyes for a moment before snapping them open again, quiet rage plastered across his face. “You would have done the same thing if you were in my position.”

“No I wouldn’t,” Harry states with utter conviction.

“You don’t know that,” Malfoy snarls.

“Yes, I do.”

Malfoy looks like he’s biting back something awful and pauses for a moment, collecting himself. “How do you know?” he demands eventually.

Harry rests his elbows on his knees and leans forward also, and states, “Because I’m not a coward.”

Malfoy flinches, face turning white. He pinches his lips together, fingers curling into the bedspread.

A wave of anger surges through Harry, licking at his bones and tingling his skin. He leans even closer. “And you, being here now...turning your back on your controlling father who just so happens to be safely tucked away in Azkaban, leaving your mum cosy and comfortable in your giant manor house? Running to the Order for help? That’s not bravery. That’s _easy_.”

Malfoy is practically _vibrating_ now, fingers trembling as they clasp around his book, either in anger or something else, Harry can’t tell. His face has turned eerily blank, a habit Harry realises he does when he’s trying extremely hard not to show any evidence of the emotion churning inside him.

Malfoy doesn’t say anything for a long time, just stares at Harry with hard eyes as he breathes shallowly through his nose. Harry knows what he said probably isn’t completely fair, after all, the vision he saw through Voldemort’s mind suggests Malfoy had fled while trying to help someone else. Harry desperately wants to ask again who it was, terrified about the answer. If it was a Weasley, however, wouldn’t Ron or Hermione have said so in their letters? And if that was the case, if it _was_ a Weasley, Harry wonders why Malfoy would have acted to help them.

Still, that doesn’t excuse everything Malfoy has done, or said, up to that point. All the times he called Hermione a mudblood, stomping on Harry’s face on the train at the beginning of the year, helping the Death Eaters inside Hogwarts and allowing Snape to murder Dumbledore while he stood there silently, doing nothing to stop him. Harry doesn’t give a shit if he lowered his hand, doesn’t give a shit if he’s turned his back on Voldemort and his parents and come running for sanctuary. It’s not enough.

Eventually, Malfoy moves. He pushes himself up off of his bed and stands up smoothly. Harry leans back and watches him warily.

“Well I guess you’ve got everything figured out, haven't you, Potter?” Malfoy mutters lowly and breaks his mask to give Harry a look of pure loathing before turning and walking calmly from the room.

Harry stares after him, feeling like he’s both missed something fundamental and has just made everything a _lot_ worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Choo choo everyone board the validation train!
> 
> (this chapter was gunna be called 'Flippity Jibbits' .. i wish i had never started titling)


	7. You and me both

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the hideously long delay, life and life etc etc blah blah excuse excuse...
> 
> You're all amazing, Ettie ily, let's just get str8 to it...

* * *

 

The rest of the day was spent in awkward silence - when they were together that was. Harry hardly saw nor heard a peep from Malfoy after their fight. He knew he was still in the house due to the fact he hadn’t come to collect his shoes from his trunk, and considering all the _pew pew-_ ing coming from Dudley’s room, he had a hunch to where the boy was hiding. After an hour of staring into space, Harry had opened his door a crack to look down the hall. Dudley’s door was shut tight. Harry wondered if Malfoy was complaining about him. Had worried what _Dudley_ was telling _Malfoy_ about him. God knows he has enough embarrassing stories about Harry from their childhood that Malfoy would _definitely_ enjoy bringing up later to see Harry squirm.  

When Petunia had stormed into his room a great many hours later, and finding Harry alone, she had cast a suspicious eye around his room as if Malfoy was hiding under his desk or in the corner, ready to jump out and give her a fright.

“Dinner,” she had scowled eventually, turning away and leaving the door open.

Harry had dived off his bed to peek past his door frame, watching as his aunt knocked quietly on Dudley’s door before opening it. She had poked her head inside, murmuring faintly for a few minutes before giving a little chuckle and moving away and back down the hall, a small smile on her face. Harry had watched her, hidden behind his door with a frown of bewilderment. Was Malfoy not in Dudley’s room after all? He highly doubted Petunia would laugh like _that_ if he was. She hated all magical folk, would never stoop to allow herself to relax in their company. 

When Dudley and - indeed - Malfoy had emerged from the room a minute later, bickering lightly about who had won what, Harry made a rather depressing realisation that his aunt maybe just hated _him._

He had ducked behind his door as they passed, giving it another minute before following.   

Dinner was both better and worse because Petunia had decided that they would all eat together at the table for the first time since Malfoy arrived. Harry wondered why this was until Vernon started spouting off about how he, _‘shant eat another meal on my lap like a lowbrow!’_ and ordered Harry to set the table.

Luckily, neither Harry nor Malfoy were invited to converse and Vernon spent the majority of the meal complaining about a new temp in his office while Harry had mainly played with his food. Malfoy hadn’t given any indication Harry was even there, not looking up once as he delicately sliced up his food. Dudley, evidently bored of the topic of conversation happening between his parents, had struck up his own with Malfoy about some new game he was planning to get the next day. And so Harry had found himself staring down at his plate as Malfoy sat on his right while fully turned away from him to chat animatedly with Dudley, and Petunia on his left while much in the same position talking to her husband. Harry had always felt like the odd one out in the house, had come to terms with that many years ago, but somehow Malfoy being here - whispering to his cousin so Harry couldn’t hear what they were discussing - had made Harry feel like he was five years old again and wondering why no one wanted to talk to him.

Harry had cleaned up alone without being prompted and glared as Malfoy had simply left his plate where it was before following Dudley back up the stairs two at a time, still nattering away about their game.

Harry had gone to bed and after waiting impatiently for Malfoy to come in, then, feeling stupid for doing so, he had turned off the lights and eventually fallen asleep alone.

That night, when Harry had once again been woken by an unpleasant dream he had immediately forgotten - but gratefully lacking in any more visions - he had turned in the darkness to look across the room towards Malfoy’s bed, a habit he had developed these past few nights.

Malfoy, as expected, was awake, eyes hooded and pale in the moonlight as they gazed over at him. Once their eyes met, however, Malfoy had immediately rolled over and settled unnaturally still, his back to the room.

 

* * *

 

When Harry wakes the next morning, he is both tired and grumpy and sporting a pounding headache. He squints his eyes open, the bright sun piercing into his skull, too bright. Once he feels like his eyeballs aren’t going to pop out of their sockets, he frowns towards the window, noticing that the curtains are drawn wide open. He huffs, turning to look at Malfoy’s bed where the boy is - surprise, surprise - absent.  

Harry pulls himself upright and goes through the familiar motions of getting ready for the day while still half-asleep. As he’s shoving on his trainers, he wonders absently if Malfoy will still be in an all-day sulk and keep up the pretence that Harry doesn’t exist. He’s bound to get over it at some point, they’ve said worse things to each other. Although to be fair, they didn’t necessarily _see_ each other every day at school. Plus, considering their entire relationship was - was? _Is -_ based on mutual dislike, neither of them ever really _got over_ what the other had said or done. Ever. Hence the constant hatred.

Does Harry still hate Malfoy? He thinks so. A little bit. They’ve barely spent a week together, after all. And _yes, okay,_ the blonde has been weirdly _affable_ \- if that’s the right word? _Affable_ _for Malfoy_ might be more accurate - during his stay so far, especially with the Dursleys. But that doesn’t mean he’s changed, and sure as hell doesn’t mean Harry _likes_ him now.

The whole thing is bloody confusing, and Harry’s got enough confusion and dread on his plate about today’s plans as it is, thank you very much.

Trotting down the stairs, Harry pauses for a moment before heading over to the kitchen. He steps inside, rather surprised to find Malfoy sitting alone at the table, sipping at a mug and reading a piece of parchment laid out in front of him.

Harry strolls over to the table, leaning over for an apple from the fruit basket. As he does so, he slants a curious eye towards the parchment but Malfoy is already folding it back up and sliding it into its envelope. Another letter from Remus, then.

“Where’s Dudley?” Harry asks as casually as he can, twisting at the stem of his apple.

Malfoy slides the letter into his trouser pocket and picks up his mug, taking a delicate sip while studiously _not_ looking at Harry.

Harry rolls his eyes and rests one hip against the table to glare down at the top of the white-blonde head, polishing his apple on the one thigh. “You can’t ignore me forever, Malfoy.”

Maloy taps a happy little beat onto the side of his mug with his nails - which could very well be morse code for _‘yes I can’ -_ and reaches forward with one hand to slide today’s newspaper towards him. His eyes narrow slightly as he takes in the still photograph on the cover, but then immediately masks his expression into something bland and respectable that makes him look disturbingly like his father.

Harry considers just standing there all morning, staring down at him until the other boy snaps and demands what he wants. But a quick glance at the clock on the wall changes his mind and he pushes himself away from the table with a sigh of frustration. “Fine. I’m going out. I’ll only be at the park, so feel free to spy anytime.”

As Harry approaches the door, he swears he hears a little murmur that sounds suspiciously like _“Piss off”_ but when he turns back, Malfoy is flipping idly through the paper with a mild expression, so he could have just imagined it.

 

* * *

 

When Lucas spots Harry pushing open the park gate, his shoulders slump in relief as if he hadn’t expected Harry to show up, face brightening into a pleased smile. Harry’s stomach churns with guilt and nervousness as he slowly makes his way over to the swings, forcing a strained grin. 

“Alright?” Harry asks, stopping a foot in front of Lucas, hands in his pockets.

“Yeah. You?” Lucas smiles, swinging himself forward slightly and reaching out his hands to catch himself on Harry’s belt loops, suspending himself in midair as Harry quickly widens his stance to stop himself from toppling forward from the sudden weight. He gives an uneasy little chuckle when Lucas smirks up at him.

“So, what exactly happened yesterday?” Lucas asks, a hint of amusement in his expression except for the crease between his eyebrows.

“Er, yeah, that was a bit weird wasn’t it,” Harry chuckles again, reaching up with one hand to rub at the back of his neck as the skin there prickles with the sudden paranoia that Malfoy has followed Harry again and is watching them. Even as Harry sends a surreptitious glance behind him, he thinks this highly unlikely. What else is there for Malfoy to see?

“A bit,” Lucas nods, letting go of Harry’s jeans to swing backwards again.

“It’s all a bit complicated,” Harry begins, stopping in distraction as Lucas catches himself on Harry again as he swings forward.

“So you keep saying,” Lucas comments mildly, letting go and repeating the same movement of, swing, grab, swing, grab.

“Yeah I know, I just-” Harry tries to get his thoughts in order, but finds it difficult when he’s constantly trying to stop himself from falling over. “It’s, uh-hard to explain-look can you _stop that?”_ Harry snaps irritably, stepping out of reach when Lucas reaches up to grab his hips again.

Lucas startles, digging his feet into the ground to stop the swing and giving Harry a wounded look.

Harry sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Sorry,” he mutters, taking a deep breath. “Sorry, it’s just-I’m trying to talk to you and that’s...”

Lucas holds his hands up in mock surrender, eyebrows raised. _“Oka-ay_. Come take a seat, I’m listening,” he pats the swing next to him with a cautious tilt to his lips.

Harry moves forward and sits, kicking at the dirt below him as he chews the inside of his cheek.

“What’s his name, anyway?” Lucas asks after a moment of silence, head tilted back to look up at the cloudless sky.

Harry swallows. “Draco.”

“Draco? That’s weird,” Lucas comments, frowning slightly.

“It’s unusual, yeah,” Harry agrees with a tilt of his head. “It means dragon in Latin.” When Lucas turns his head to give him an odd look, Harry realises what he’s said and flushes. He only knows that because A) Malfoy never shuts up about it, and B) Hermione translated their Hogwarts crest one day when Ron started complaining about the fact that Malfoy’s name was on it.

 _“Apparently_ ,” Harry mutters in defence, rolling on his heels to make the swing inch back and forth.

Lucas scoffs. “I get what you mean about him.”

“Huh?” Harry asks distractedly.

“That he’s a dick,” Lucas shrugs, shooting Harry a wry smile.

“Oh,” Harry breathes a short laugh. “Yeah, I mean-yeah. He’s trying,” he feels the need to add for some reason.

“Trying to not be a dick?” Lucas huffs incredulously.

Harry lifts one shoulder. “Yeah. I guess.”

Lucas turns fully to face him, a deep frown creasing his forehead. “What, so you _l_ _ike_ him now?” he demands, a bit affronted.

“I didn’t say that,” Harry quips, rolling his eyes, “I just-I appreciate him...trying,” he says slowly, wondering why he feels the need to defend the git who hasn’t even _looked_ at him since yesterday afternoon.

“And _yesterday_ was him trying to not be a dick?” Lucas drawls, unimpressed.

Harry thinks about it, replaying the odd scene where Malfoy had been so outraged Harry was purposefully seeking out violence. The way he had tried to explain, in the most Malfoy-ish condescending way, how utterly bizarre and _wrong_ the whole thing was. Harry sucks in a deep breath. “In an odd way, I guess so,” he allows. “It’s complicated.”

Lucas raises an eyebrow, giving Harry a hooded look. “It’s _all complicated,_ eh?”

Harry smiles sheepishly, rubbing at his neck, and Lucas chuckles dryly in response.

They sit together for a long moment, Harry’s fingers clenching on the chains on either side of him as he works himself up to what he’s about to say next.

Harry clears his throat, eyes trained on his feet. “What you said, yesterday…”

Lucas hums in question and Harry can’t bring himself to look up to see his expression, would rather direct this topic of conversation down towards the dry and dusty dirt beneath his feet.

“About me. Being your boyfriend,” Harry says quietly, holding his breath.

Lucas pauses. “Oh. Yeah? Was that not-?”

Harry looks up quickly, wincing. “No, I mean, it’s fine. I just...is that really true? Is that what we’ve been doing?” He gives Lucas a pained look, feeling a little guilty.

Lucas turns to look into the distance, adam's apple bobbing. “You disagree?” he murmurs.

Harry shakes his head, wishing he had been graced with the natural talent of eloquence - even a bit of _coherency_ would have been nice _._ How does Malfoy do it? “No, it’s just-the kissing and stuff, that’s...good? But everything else…”

“The fighting?” Lucas smirks at him, but his eyes are dim.

Harry shrugs, a strained smile on his face to take the sting out of his words. “Yeah, don’t you find it a little...dysfunctional?”

Lucas watches him for a moment before turning away again with a loud sigh. “I suppose. Yeah. I just figured-it’s what you wanted?” he looks back at Harry in question, looking a little vulnerable.

“It is!” Harry blurts quickly. “I mean, I _did_. But-” he stops, cringing in dread. He looks at Lucas with a grimace. “Maybe it’s time to call it a day?” he suggests, heart thudding uncomfortably.

Lucas breathes deeply before forcing an over-casual expression. “You think so?”

“It _is_ a little fucked,” Harry smiles crookedly, trying to make light out of the situation.

Lucas picks up on his discomfort, thankfully, and turns to nod grandly up at the sky. “Yeah, I mean, to be fair my mum’s been getting a _little_ concerned.”

Harry lets out a relieved little chuckle. “I can imagine.”

Lucas stays quiet, not looking at him and Harry bites his bottom lip, not knowing what to say. He glances back down at his feet, wiping his sweaty palms on his jeans.

“I like you, Lucas,” Harry feels the need to point out, truthfully.

“I like you too,” Lucas murmurs, face still tilted upwards, and he says it with almost a hint of regret that makes Harry feel lousy.

Harry clears his throat again, intentionally stalling. He scratches at the inside of one elbow, then his cheek, before taking a deep breath and saying in a rush, “But, I think we should just be friends. And stop all this _craziness_. Don’t you agree?” Harry turns imploring eyes back towards the other boy’s profile.

Lucas rolls his eyes to meet Harry’s gaze, expression suddenly dark. “Is this what _he’s_ said?”

Harry frowns, confused. “What? Who, Draco?”

“Yes,” Lucas replies shortly.

Harry feels a lick of indignation, shaking his head. “You think I’m saying this because of _him?”_

“Are you?” Lucas demands out-right, eyes hard, body unnaturally still considering what he’s sitting on and the persistent summer breeze that should be gently pushing him back and forth.

“No!” Harry cries, irritated that he would think that.

However, he thinks a second later, in fairness they probably _wouldn’t_ be having this conversation if Malfoy hadn’t shoved his nose into their business the day before. He tries to put that into words that don’t sound as hypocritical as he feels, “I can’t lie, having an outsiders point of view _has_ put things a bit into perspective. Which is understandable, I think? What did you expect, that we were just going to batter each other every day, forever?” Harry forces a laugh of incredulity.

Lucas continues to watch him with narrowed eyes for a long moment. Then, his expression softens and he lets out a deep sigh, closing his eyes as he kicks off from the ground to start swinging slowly once more.

“I guess you have a point,” he mutters, opening his eyes again and fixing defeated eyes back on Harry’s face. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Harry tries to clarify, heart in this throat.

“Okay, we should stop. I agree.” Lucas nods once, tone reasonable.

Harry raises his eyebrows in surprise. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Lucas nods again, expression mild.

Harry lets out a stuttered breath of relief, mumbling, “Okay. Cool. _Coo-ool.”_

Lucas’s eyes turn fond and he smiles, lopsided, running his feet across the ground to swing up higher.

They don’t speak for a long time after that, Harry feeling lighter now they’ve cleared the air and finally _addressed_ their odd relationship. He didn’t think he ever _wanted_ to. Somewhere buried deep down he had known - of course - how unhealthy the whole thing was. But he had ignored that little Hermione-sounding voice because it had simply been easy to do so. The thought of Lucas participating in their fights purely because that’s what Harry wanted to do and the boy _liked_ him, makes the Gryffindor feel a little sick. Harry realises just how childish and destructive he has been these past few weeks. And sure, the fact that _Malfoy_ of all people has been the one to make him realise this _is_ a little unsettling, doesn’t make it any less true. He appreciates Lucas’ easy acceptance - or rather him trying to _appear_ as such anyway -  more so when they start a silent competition of who can swing the highest.

They don’t fight, and they don’t kiss. They just swing higher and don’t speak, and somehow that’s nicer. _Easier._

When Harry finally gives up and admits defeat, allowing Lucas this tiny triumph because he still feels a lick of guilt, he stands and hovers awkwardly.

“Erm, can I have your number? That way I can call you? See when you want to hang out?” Harry stumbles out, hands deep in his pockets, feeling like a prized tool.

“Like normal people?” Lucas smirks, rising to his feet too.

Harry smiles. “Like normal people,” he agrees softly, feeling anything but.

“Okay.” Lucas’ eyes sparkle and Harry suddenly feels a lot better. He pulls out the pen he had nicked from the hallway table when he had left the house that morning, handing it over. Lucas takes his wrist in one hand, pushing up Harry’s sleeve with the other and scribbles his phone number onto Harry’s forearm.

They wander out of the park together and a little down the street before Lucas stops and turns to give Harry a wink with a parting, “Call me,” and strolls away towards his own house.

Harry watches him go with a small smile, a weight he didn’t even know was pressing down on his shoulders lifting in relief, and heads back to number four.

 

* * *

 

Harry spends the majority of the walk home feeling both proud and very young. Which is an odd combination, yet something he has experienced many times over. It isn't lost on him that he can face down Voldemort and his army with nothing but righteous anger and a strong sense of justice that pushes away almost all traces of fear, leaving behind a soldier-like calmness that has saved his life again and again. But one conversation with a boy, or a girl - god, the memory of asking Cho to the yule ball _still_ makes Harry squirm in embarrassment - about any sort of romantic expectation or feelings reduces him to a stuttering, nervous wreck. Harry has always seen himself as being _older_ than his years, he’s seen so much, been through so much. But those rare moments of adolescent anxiety brings back the reality of just how young he is. 

It isn’t a comforting thought.

Harry knows that it isn’t exactly normal or healthy to be able to function better in a life or death situation than a simple awkward conversation. The word _conditioning_ comes to mind and Harry forcefully pushes it aside. Best not go down that road right now. He can go right ahead and freely develop bitterness and resentment when the war is over and he has time to stew. Preferably many many years after the war is over. If he even survives, that is.

Right now, however, Harry feels like something fundamental has changed within him; a realisation that you can’t just substitute every heartache and worrying thought into something destructive and violent. It doesn’t stop the reality of what is happening. It may stop your brain from _thinking_ for a minute, but it doesn’t last.

At the end of the day, Harry knows he has to step up and carry on Dumbledore’s plan. He knows that the fate of all his friends, acquaintances and strangers relies on him. He must be an adult, he must be civil, he must see the bigger picture. Lucas was a distraction, yes, but now isn’t the time to get distracted. Now is the time to prepare.

Which isn’t going to be the easiest thing to do when one currently lives with a sulking Draco Malfoy.

It’s still early when Harry lets himself into the house, which is why he’s surprised to find Vernon standing in the kitchen, arms crossed and scowling out of the window facing the garden, instead of at work.

Harry, quite reasonably, instantly regrets entering the room and is slowly backing back out when Vernon turns to glare at him.

“You’re not at work,” Harry comments stupidly, halting his retreat so it doesn’t look like he’s running away.

“My meeting was cancelled. Another shining example of Rodgers’ incompetence once again. I will be having words tomorrow,” Vernon snarls ominously, talking more to himself than Harry. Harry has no idea who Rodgers is but immediately feels a stab of sympathy for them, watching with increasing wariness as Vernon’s face turns a horrible shade of purple.

“Not that it’s any of your business where I am or where I am not!” Vernon barks suddenly as if only now realising who Harry is and what he’s just said.

Harry nods indulgently, watching his uncle turn back towards the window with a loud huff.

“I don’t like him. I don’t trust him,” Vernon sniffs importantly, shifting his giant weight from one leg to the other.

Curious, Harry edges forward to peek over Vernon’s large shoulder. At first, he only sees his aunt kneeling by a flower bed, adorned in a sun hat and thick gloves as she digs small holes into the earth. Harry wonders briefly if his uncle has truly lost it, when Malfoy appears from behind a bush, dressed casually in jeans and a long sleeved t-shirt, and kneels down beside her, dropping little seeds into the holes. He says something that neither observer can hear and shoots Petunia a charming little smile. Harry watches in astonishment as Petunia laughs and swats lightly at his arm, her whole face transforming into a playful grin that Harry has never before seen on her face.

“Jesus,” Harry breathes, stepping fully beside his uncle to get a closer look.

“He’s put her under some sort of freakish... _spell,_ I’m sure of it,” Vernon spits, shuddering with disgust at both the concept and the fact that the word ‘spell’ just passed his lips.

“Seems that way,” Harry murmurs, eyes growing impossibly wider when Petunia _blushes_ in response to another inaudible comment from the blonde. She gives him a little disapproving look, but her eyes are warm and there’s a smile lingering around her usually hard mouth.

Is Malfoy….is Draco Malfoy _flirting_ with Harry Potter’s muggle aunt? The thought is both horrific and wildly hysterical. Harry huffs a laugh of disbelief, not quite sure how to feel about the whole bizarre situation.

“You think this is funny!?” Vernon turns towards Harry in outrage, face darkening and moustache quivering in anger. “My wife is being _unnaturally manipulated_ and all I can do is stand and _watch_ and wait for the blessed day when you finally leave my house and my family’s lives forever!”

 _That day can’t come soon enough,_ Harry thinks in longing. “I highly doubt he’s actually put her under a spell, Uncle Vernon, considering we can’t do magic at the moment-”

 _“Do NOT speak those words under my roof!”_ Vernon spits wildly, one meaty hand slapping on top on the unit in front of them and causing Harry to flinch. He takes a quick step to the side and out of arm's reach.

“I highly doubt he’s actually done anything _freakish,_ Uncle Vernon, considering we can’t do anything _freakish_ at the moment,” Harry amends dryly, rolling his eyes.

“That hasn’t stopped you before,” Vernon glares, shifting as if to move away from Harry before pride makes him still and plant his feet in rebellion.

Harry pretends to consider this for a long moment. “Hm. I suppose you’re right, there,” he agrees mildly, stepping smartly away when Vernon starts spluttering in rage.

“I want you and your kind _out of my house!”_ Vernon yells at Harry’s retreating back as he quickly leaves the kitchen.

“You and me both,” Harry mutters, trotting up the stairs and trying to wipe away the unnerving image of his aunt and Malfoy laughing together surrounded by sunflowers.


	8. See you in therapy ten years from now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all, I love you, you're all getting ice cream. Ettie, you get the biggest scoop.

* * *

 

_Dear Ron (and Hermione, I know you’re reading this too)_

_I’m okay. Really. And I’m glad you are all together and keeping safe._

_Your rants about Fleur are a welcome distraction from the bizarre turn my summer has taken. I’m sure you can imagine how much ‘fun’ I am having... I bet Bill is excited though! Give him my congrats._

_You Know Who #2 isn’t talking to me at the moment (don’t ask) so today has been peaceful enough. I wonder how long_ that _will last. Things would go a lot smoother if you two were here..._

_Actually, on second thought maybe not. Looking at you Ron, mate._

_Nothing much to report on my end, as per, and I know you can’t say much about yours so I won’t ask even though I’m desperate to. Hey, maybe if you see Moony you could ask him to get in touch if he has time? Maybe he can shove a little info my way._

_Ron, tell your dad I’m very sorry but I don’t know how plastic is made._

_I miss you guys._

 

Harry brushes the end of his quill back and forth across his lips, staring down at his letter with a small frown. Normally, the three of them would write pages and pages to each other - okay, maybe not Ron whose short paragraphs were usually just a condensed version of Hermione’s essays but with an added plethora of swear words - but it’s exhausting having to read over what you’ve written a hundred times to make sure nothing compromising is there.

Harry hasn’t told either of them about Lucas. It’s an odd thought to think that _Malfoy_ of all people is the one who shares that secret with him.

More than once Harry has started to write about his _‘little liaison’,_ as Malfoy called it. In fact, he has a drawer full of scrunched up pieces of paper he couldn’t bring himself to send, the majority addressed mainly to Hermione. Harry knows for a fact she would be nothing but supportive if he told her he thinks he probably swings both ways, but he feels a little apprehensive telling her when he knows she’s with Ron and there’s a very high chance they would read the letter together.

Not that Harry thinks Ron would care in the slightest if Harry was bisexual or gay or whatever, but considering Harry only recently broke with Ginny...well. Regardless of the gender, Ron is still her big brother and probably wouldn't take too kindly at knowing how quickly Harry has seemed to move on.

Harry isn’t even sure he _has_ moved on from Ginny. He had ended things with the sole purpose of keeping her safe, the danger of what _could be_ outweighing anything romantic. They have been writing during the summer too, all intentionally vague and mainly well wishes. Harry does miss her, he _does._ But he realises now that he misses her like he misses Hermione and Ron and Remus and Luna and all his other friends.

Things are complicated. This summer has been the most confusing and bizarre of any he can remember. He feels a stab of guilt at the thought of Ginny waiting for him, unaware of the promises he had already broken from their last conversation.

Sighing and shoving those thoughts aside, Harry seals the envelope and holds out the letter for Hedwig, who has been sitting patiently beside him as he wrote. He strokes her chest with the back of one finger and she chirps happily, hopping up onto the windowsill before taking flight. Harry watches her soar across the horizon until she becomes a tiny white dot that disappears behind a cloud.

He swivels in his chair to face his empty room, drumming his fingers on his thighs.

_Now what?_

With Lucas now on the back burner and no longer a source of distraction, and Malfoy pretending Harry doesn’t exist while charming the rest of his relatives, he doesn’t know what he’s going to do with all his free time. He supposes he could start creating a plan to find the Horcruxes. Only that’s a little hard when he has precisely zero leads and information. And it’s also a little hard due to the fact that everytime Harry has that thought, he feels a surge of anger directed at Dumbledore and his habit of never telling Harry enough, which turns into a surge of guilt for feeling angry at the man, which in turn develops into a surge of sadness that the man is gone.

The constant cocktail of emotions is draining and exhausting and usually makes Harry want to lie down on his bed and stare at his ceiling for a few hours trying not to cry. Which he really doesn’t want to do when Malfoy could burst in at any moment and verbally punch him in the gut.

Harry sighs, switching his aimless tapping into scratching at the denim instead, eyes finding focus on Malfoy’s trunk. He twitches forward before pausing and biting at the inside of his cheek.

He _could..._ it would only be fair, considering Malfoy’s rather unsubtle spying the day before. A little snooping would balance things out, right? And only the letters from Remus, Harry certainly doesn’t want to flick through Malfoy’s journal again after the last revelation. That thought makes him reach up with one hand and prod at his still-tender jaw, the anxiety in his stomach twisting up towards his throat along with a vague feeling of nausea. Harry wonders how many limbs he would have left if he confronted Malfoy about the list. Wonders again why the blonde was keeping tabs on his injuries. In some respect, he doesn’t want to know.

Harry knows he has a problem with impulsivity and a tendency to stick his nose where he shouldn’t. He can admit that freely to himself. Which _kind of_ makes it okay, he summarizes tentatively. As long as you _admit_ your faults, do you not pretty much have free reign to act on them?

Harry snorts, hearing how utterly insane that is.

He stands up anyway and takes a step forward.

Only to stumble back and down into his seat again a second later when the door abruptly opens and Malfoy almost skips into the room with a pleased expression. He stops when he spots Harry, who tries very hard to act casual by leaning back in his chair and reaching up to link his hands behind his head with a strained smile. Malfoy’s face drops into a scowl. Harry shifts in his chair guiltily and promptly stills when he catches himself doing so.

“You’re back,” Malfoy states in the same matter-of-fact tone that Harry had used when he had walked in on his uncle earlier, if a little more accusatory. Malfoy crosses his arms, hovering in the open doorway.

“You’re talking to me,” Harry quips in reply, dropping his arms back down self consciously when Malfoy’s eyes flick over his pose with a suspicious air.

Malfoy glances to the left, glaring in a manner that suggests he would be aiming it at himself if humans had the capacity. He sucks in his cheeks and bites down on them from the inside, causing his cheekbones to appear even more pointed than they already are, both effectively stopping himself from speaking again and looking like the melodramatic ponce he tries so hard to perfect. He turns away with his nose in the air and pushes the door closed - Harry rolls his eyes - before heading over to his bed and flopping himself across it on his back before reaching under his pillow and pulling out a textbook, opening it and settling in to read.

Harry fiddles with the hem of his shirt, eyes darting around the room as he tries to think of something to say to break the heavy silence, feeling immensely awkward. He clears his throat.

“Good day?” Harry finds himself asking eventually, cringing as soon as the words are out of his mouth.

Malfoy raises his head very slowly and very deliberately, fixing raised eyebrows on Harry’s face incredulously.

“Pardon?” he asks, blinking rapidly.

Harry shifts in his seat, scratching at his neck. “What have you been up to, I mean?” he asks, knowing _exactly_ what the Slytherin has been up to.

Malfoy rolls onto his side to stare at Harry fully, resting his head on his hand. “Are we exchanging pleasantries now?” he asks, his tone an odd mixture of bitterness and careful politeness that makes Harry sit up straighter.

“If you want,” Harry shrugs, pulling his feet up to sit cross-legged.

Malfoy watches him with impassive eyes for a long moment before heaving himself into an upright position, back so straight and expression so pompous it would make any pureblood proud. “Why, my day has been notably satisfactory so far, thank you for asking Mr Potter. The sun is shining gloriously and has medicated my constant troublesome anxiety. I trust you have been faring well?”

Harry gives him a flat look, unimpressed. “Yeah, alright, very funny.”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow,” Malfoy replies, tilting his head to one side with a pleasantly confused expression, accent still exaggerated.

“I broke things off with Lucas,” Harry blurts, immediately flushing. _Where the hell did_ that _come from?_ Harry wasn’t even planning on _telling_ Malfoy. He wasn’t planning on telling him because it’s none of his _damn business._ Lucas wasn’t even on his mind until this very second.

Malfoy stills, face slacking for a second. He clears his throat before raising one pale eyebrow. “Oh?”

Oh well, in for a penny, in for a pound and all that.

“Yeah,” Harry nods, looking down. “You, er,” he coughs into his fist, dragging the dreaded words out of his mouth reluctantly, “You were right,” Harry cringes, not looking up to avoid having to see the smug expression that must be developing on Malfoy’s face. “It wasn’t...healthy,” he mumbles.

There’s a moment of silence, then, “No,” Malfoy agrees faintly.

Harry looks up in surprise. Malfoy is staring at him, the smugness he expected to see utterly lacking on his face and instead the blonde is looking at him with a perplexed little frown.

Another stretch of silence hovers between them. Malfoy clears his throat again and his expression finally shifts into a superior look that causes Harry to relax marginally for a reason he can’t identify.

“Well, I’m glad you’ve finally listened to reason for once in your life. I am _considerably_ more intelligent than you, you understand.”

Harry scoffs and rolls his eyes, playing his part with familiar ease and relief. Malfoy smirks at him.

“Oh, piss off,” Harry says without heat, slumping down in his seat.

Malfoy huffs a laugh and rolls his neck, tilting his face towards the ceiling. “I get why you did it though,” he comments mildly.

Harry frowns in confusion. “Why I broke it off?”

Malfoy stretches his neck from side to side before lowering his head back down to look at him, expression bland. “Why you pursued it in the first place,” he clarifies.

Harry hesitates, watching Malfoy warily. “I don’t think I want to hear what you’re going to say about this...”

“I must admit it came as rather a surprise to learn you were a…” Malfoy twirls one hand in midair as he thinks and Harry narrows his eyes, waiting for an insult. _“Horatian_ shall we say, but it makes-”

“A what?” Harry interrupts, frowning and crossing his arms.

Malfoy blinks at him. “Horatian.”

Harry tilts his head to one side and shrugs, raising his eyebrows challengingly.

“Lord Byron?” Malfoy asks slowly as if Harry is hard of hearing.

Harry thinks for a moment. “The poet?”

Malfoy rolls his eyes. “Among other things, yes. He and his fellow chums would refer to someone who was bisexual as a ‘Horatian’,” he explains impatiently.

Harry pulls a face. “Why not just say ‘bisexual’ then?”

“So I was right?” Malfoy asks, sitting up with keen eyes.

Harry shakes his head, thrown and feeling like he’s trying to follow two conversations at once. “Right about what?”

“You’re bisexual,” Malfoy states calmly, leaning forward ever so slightly.

Harry flounders, mouth opening and closing as he thinks on how to respond. He rubs a hand in his hair, turning his eyes away and not fully believing that he is having this conversation with _Malfoy_ and not, say, Hermione.  He thinks back to the crumpled letters in his desk drawer to her, the many times he had tried to explain his feelings but had chickened out, and how bizarrely he has found himself having that conversation _now_ with _Malfoy._

“Uh...I mean, I guess?” Harry mutters before turning back to Malfoy and glaring at him defensively. “Why? What does it matter?”

Malfoy watches him for a long moment, absently chewing the inside of his cheek. Harry shifts again, uncomfortable at the scrutiny but refusing to look away. He isn’t _embarrassed._ He isn’t _ashamed._ Malfoy be damned, the bastard.

Eventually, the blonde’s lips quirk into a ghost of a smile that is quickly hidden as he flops back down on his back and gestures towards the ceiling grandly. “It’s no matter at all, Potter. And now you know what ‘Horatian’ means if ever someone is to call you as such.”

“I don’t think anyone says that except you,” Harry points out with a snort, relaxing slightly now that those piercing eyes have turned their attention elsewhere.

 _“Anyway,”_ Malfoy says too-loudly, “I was saying that it makes sense, I suppose,” he turns his head to look at Harry here and rolls his eyes at Harry’s expression. “Not that he’s a boy, Potter, Merlin above. I mean the _nature_ of your relationship. The fighting, the routine. Up early at eight am and back at precisely five pm.”

Harry shakes his head, confused frustration seeping in. “Where are you going with this, Malfoy?”

Malfoy groans and sits up again, giving Harry a matter-of-fact look. “It was something to do,” he pauses and a slow smirk stretches across his face. _“He_ was something to do.”

Harry fights a blush and glares at him, unfolding his legs and planting his feet on the floor to ground himself. “Well, yeah. Isn’t that kind of the whole point of a relationship?” he scoffs, picking at his thumbnail.

Malfoy stares at him before letting out a bark of laughter. _“Oh, Potter,”_ he chides condescendingly, giving Harry an exaggerated sympathetic look that puts Harry’s teeth on edge.

“What?” Harry snaps, irritated.

“Nothing, nothing,” Malfoy chuckles, tilting his head down and tucking his hair behind his ears delicately while shooting Harry little amused glances from under his lashes.  

Harry doesn’t appreciate someone trying to make him feel small at the best of times and certainly won’t allow it from Malfoy while the boy is living in his own bedroom. Not wanting to play this game anymore - and also not wanting to point out he has no idea what Malfoy is talking about more than he already has - Harry scowls and spins his chair back around to face his desk, pointedly picking up his quill and grabbing a fresh piece of parchment.

Having no idea what to write, he hesitates for a moment before deciding to write a letter to Luna and ask how her how her leaping toadstools are fairing, hoping Malfoy will get the message and leave him be.

He’s written half a paragraph before a poke on his shoulder makes him jump. He looks up to find Malfoy standing directly behind him, expression exasperated. The blonde folds his arms and steps up to the desk, turning around to lean against it so he can look down his nose at Harry with the desired effect of looking like a disapproving teacher. He crosses one ankle over the other, looking entirely too at ease considering their close proximity.

“You’re angry.”

Harry sighs and chucks his quill onto the table, leaning back in his chair to glare up at him. “Yes. You piss me off.”

One side of Malfoy’s mouth lifts in a half-smile for a second as his eyes turn skyward. “I don’t mean with me, although there is no denying the truth of that statement and the feeling _is_ mutual. I mean in general. Being told you’re not allowed to do anything but stay cooped up in this house all day while everyone else is _doing_ something. _That_ pisses you off.”

He says it so matter-of-fact that Harry feels his heart rate increase uncomfortably and he swallows, fighting away any expression that threatens to give himself away. He always feels a little wrong-footed when Hermione calmly observes something about him that perfectly hits the nail on the head, but constantly tries to put it down to the fact she just knows him very well and _not_ that he’s just unnervingly transparent. So either Malfoy can, too, read him like a book after six years of schooling together, or Harry really is just that predictable.

He decides lying would be fruitless at this point and goes for a different approach, fixing an unimpressed look up at the blonde with hooded eyes. “Well, aren’t you perceptive,” Harry mutters sarcastically, secretly glad that _that_ was what came out of his mouth instead of the _‘Well, duh’_ that had first popped into his mind.  

Surprisingly, Malfoy doesn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he fixes an intense stare on Harry’s face and says, “And here _I_ am. I made a choice. I _did something.”_

Harry sits up straighter and turns to face him fully, irritation peaking into anger. “What are you trying to say? That I’m not?”

Malfoy groans, tilting his head back in exasperation, the long line of his throat pale and momentarily distracting. “Oh, for the love of God...”

Harry grasps onto his indignation with two hands desperately. “No, go on. Don’t start holding back on me now, Malfoy, nothing’s ever stopped you before.”

Malfoy rolls his head back down and glares at Harry. “Get your head out of your arse, Potter. No, I am _not_ saying you are not doing anything, although _technically_ you’re not, but that is neither here nor there…” he says, eyes flicking over the letter Harry had been writing to Luna regarding her gardening.

Harry reaches out and flicks the parchment over angrily, hiding the words. “For your information, I am-”

“Whatever, Potter! Fine! Good! I’m glad!” Malfoy interrupts, throwing his arms up in exasperation and narrowly avoiding slapping Harry on the forehead. “The point is, _I don’t_ _know what’s going on_ and _you don’t know what’s going on_ and you can’t fucking stand it, can you?” He lowers his arms, placing them on his hips as he stares down at Harry with raised eyebrows.

Harry sucks in an irritated breath through his teeth, not enjoying this line of conversation but unable to let it go. He has a feeling that Malfoy would follow him out of the room if he fled, just to finish his point. “What are you talking about?” Harry sighs eventually, annoyed at the blonde and himself both.

“This whole situation, this ridiculous, shitty situation, right _here._ I _chose_ to be here. _I_ made that decision,” Malfoy continues, enunciating his words by stabbing a finger on the desktop at the beginning of every sentence.

Harry squints at him suspiciously, darting his eyes around what little of the room he can see in this position.

Malfoy scoffs. “No, not literally here with you, you twat. I mean in general. I didn’t know I was going to end up _here,”_ he snaps, jabbing at the desk again.

“If you _had_ known, would you have stayed? At home with your mum?” Harry finds himself asking, pleased at how the question seems to momentarily throw Malfoy off guard.

Malfoy shifts, uncrossing his ankles to plant his feet wider on the ground. He looks away for a moment before turning back to give Harry a considering look. “…I don’t know. Maybe. Does it matter?”

Hoping this will be the end of the tirade, Harry shrugs and stands. “I guess not.”

Malfoy doesn’t give up, though, and pushes Harry back down in his seat with one warm hand. Harry jerks away but stays seated, letting out a deep exhale and waits, rubbing one hand across his forehead as a headache threatens to develop.

Malfoy takes a deep breath and crosses his arms again, leaning back onto the desk once more. “The point I am _trying_ to make, if you will stop interrupting me for two seconds, is; I understand how frustrating it is to be left in the dark. Having your life dictated to you by others. Not having a say in what happens to you, where you go, who you correspond with, what your _beliefs are._ Do you see where I am going with this? Please say you see where I am going with this, I am uncomfortable enough as it is.”

And he suddenly _does_ look uncomfortable, eyes tired but expression pinched and Harry suddenly realises that Malfoy is trying _,_ really _trying,_ to say something of importance here. Has been _trying_ since he got here. Trying to get along with Harry, which is utterly bewildering, trying to get along with the Dursleys, which is even _more_ bewildering. The least Harry could do is throw him a bone. If anything, maybe it will make him shut up quicker.

Sighing, Harry drops his hand and blinks up at him. “Yes, I see where you are going with this.”

Malfoy nods, looking relieved. “I turned my back on my life. My family. _Everything_. And I have ended up here, in a room with _you,_ behind a door that has an alarming amount of locks on the outside. Which, by the way, while rather fitting for my analogy, I have been meaning to ask exactly _why_ do you have an alarming amount of locks on the outside of your door?” he asks, his soft tone turning perplexed as his eyes dart across the room at the door.

Harry clenches his jaw, he had been anticipating the question for days but it still makes him tense up like someone has thrown a body-bind at him. “Are you going to tell me why you left?” he deflects.

Malfoy turns his attention back to him, raising one perfectly groomed eyebrow. “Are you going to actually _ask me?”_

“I have asked you!” Harry cries, jerking his head back, affronted.

Malfoy’s expression doesn’t change. “No, you haven't.”

“I have!” Harry stops. And thinks. “...Haven’t I?”

Malfoy shakes his head with such over-exaggeration that it almost flies off his neck.

Well. Harry feels a little embarrassed but thinks the question has at least been _implied_ at some point. Probably not best to point that out, considering.

“Okay, why did you leave?” Harry asks instead, leaning his chair back on two legs so he can look at Malfoy from a better angle, the curiosity that he had been trying to suppress over the week flooding back at full force.

“Why do you have six locks on your door?” Malfoy retorts, accent becoming more pronounced in a way that Harry recognises now as a defence mechanism.

 _Okay then, I’ll play,_ Harry thinks and takes a second to compose himself. “My uncle put them there to lock me in,” he replies, voice carefully blank. He watches Malfoy’s reaction avidly.

Malfoy frowns, eyes flicking over to the door once again. “Why would he need to lock you in?” He glances back at Harry and gives him an exaggerated look of concern. “Are you a danger to yourself and others?”

Harry drops his chair back down to all four legs with a sharp bang and moves to stand again, absolutely _done_ with this conversation now. “You know what, just leave it-”

Malfoy raises his hands, trying to block Harry’s escape with a little nervous laugh. “I’m joking, Potter!” Harry ignores him and makes his way towards the door.

“Potter. _Potter._ I was joking,” Malfoy says to his retreating back, the sudden gentle tone of his voice makes Harry pause. He shoots a glare over his shoulder, hand on the doorknob.

Malfoy is looking at him a little pained, but when their eyes meet he shoots a tiny grin. “Kind of.”

Harry rolls his eyes but lets his fingers uncurl around the metal, stepping away from the door in case any ears are listening behind the wood. He regards Malfoy for a moment, wondering just how much he should say. He certainly doesn’t want to have this conversation, not ever, but Malfoy is looking at him with nothing but honest curiosity and it makes Harry say, “My relatives don’t like me, Malfoy, surely you’ve noticed that by now?” He gestures randomly towards the wall.

Malfoy places a hand delicately on the back of Harry’s vacated chair and looks down at his fingers, taking a second as if choosing his words carefully. “I haven’t... _not_ noticed that,” he replies finally, very deliberately _not_ looking at Harry.

Harry reads something else in his tone and frowns, a fleeting thought that he must know Maloy better than he had previously thought, too, races across his mind and he ignores it for now. “My aunt complains about me to you, doesn’t she.” It isn't a question. Malofy takes it upon himself to answer anyway.

 _“All_ the time, it’s wonderful,” he breathes, glancing up towards the ceiling with a blissful smile as if seeing God himself.

“Great. Well, that’s why the locks are there,” Harry mutters, heading over to his bed and dragging himself onto the mattress so he doesn’t have to look at the other boy, feeling exposed and uncomfortable.

“They lock you in because they _don’t like you?”_ Malfoy asks in disbelief, heading over to his own bed and lowering himself down on the edge to stare across at Harry, resting his elbows on his knees and lacing his fingers together between them.

 _“Locked._ And yes, pretty much,” Harry mutters, punching his pillow with a little more force than is necessary before resting his head on it. He doesn’t look at Malfoy but can feel his eyes boring into the side of his face and it makes him feel self-conscious. He sits up, restless and not knowing what to do with his body.  

“That’s rather dark,” Malfoy comments mildly after a moment.

Harry shrugs, wiping his palms on his jeans before reaching for his wand from his bedside table, twirling it between his fingers for something to do. “It is what it is.”

“So they don’t lock you in now?” Malfoy asks, and Harry still can’t bring himself to look at him even though there is no hint of mockery in his voice.

“No, not for years.”

“Huh,” Malfoy pauses and Harry opens his mouth to change the subject, but before he can Malfoy speaks again, tone lighter, “That’s probably going to manifest into a deeper issue when you’re older, fair warning.”

Harry snorts, finding an odd appreciation at the blondes attempt at humour and finally glances over to him. “Probably,” he agrees. “But it’ll be _wa-ay_ at the bottom of the list.”

Malfoy chuckles, eyes on Harry’s hands as they flick his wand from finger to finger. “See you in therapy ten years from now.”

“Hopefully,” Harry mutters with a nod, stretching his legs out until his knees click satisfyingly.

Malfoy raises his head to squint at Harry in confusion.

“Meaning, if we are alive in ten years,” Harry explains, wincing internally at how depressing that sounds. Malfoy seems to agree.

“Fucking hell, Potter, way to bring the mood down.”

“Was it ever _up?”_ Harry retorts but sends a small smile towards the blonde who grins back.

“Not with that attitude, no.”

They smile at each other for a long second before both seeming to realise at the same time that they are and each look away quickly.

Harry clears his throat. “So why did you leave?”

Malfoy stretches his arms up above his head with a content sigh, before lacing his fingers behind his head and flopping down on his back. “I said I would tell you, Potter, I didn’t say I would tell you _now.”_

Harry jolts, irritation flaring again. “Oi! That’s not fair!”

“Life isn’t fair,” comes the pompous reply.

 _“Malfoy!”_ Harry cries, raising a pillow threateningly.

Malfoy throws up one hand in defence with a yell. “No, I _will_ tell you!”

Harry lowers the pillow with narrowed eyes.

Malfoy drops his arm and sits up, eyeing Harry with a sudden seriousness that makes him blink. “I will tell you,” Malfoy repeats, voice softer. “Just-I can’t. Not now. I will though, I promise.”

Harry’s eyes flick over his pale face, reading the shadow of vulnerability in his eyes, the way his teeth dig into his bottom lip and believes him. “Okay.”

Malfoy seems surprised by Harry’s easy acceptance, if a little suspicious, but the expression melts away into something pleased and grateful and he nods once.

Harry nods back and that is that.


	9. I'm Not Scared

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone look under your seats! You get some love! Ettie gets some love! You all get some love! 
> 
> Genuinely, thank you all so much for your comments and interest <3

* * *

 

Dinner is a blessedly civil affair. The only thing that makes it better from the night before at first is the fact that Malfoy actively tries to include Harry in his gaming conversation with Dudley. Of course, Harry has no idea what either of them are talking about but he appreciates the gesture nonetheless.

Vernon spends the first half of the meal glaring at Malfoy from across the table, especially when Petunia politely asks the blonde about some plant or other that Harry remembers vaguely hearing about in herbology. Sometimes the beast of a man shoots his glare over to Harry as if the exchanges are _his_ doing, but Harry has sixteen years worth of practice mastering how to ignore these so it doesn’t bother him too much.

However, Vernon looks up sharply with an interested expression when Petunia starts asking Malfoy about the charity work his mother has undertaken in the past few years. The talk of money transforms Vernon’s suspicious scowl into something considering and it is at that point Harry knows things are about to get even more bizarre.

“Mother has set up a weekly donation to an organisation set on rehoming abandoned puppies,” Malfy declares proudly, taking a sip of red wine that Harry has not been offered.

Harry stops himself from snorting, highly doubting the truth of this statement. He knows for a fact that the Malfoys have their fingers in many charitable pies, mainly for the publicity and none of which matter at this point in time as the patriarch is currently imprisoned. Changing the word ‘puppy’ to ‘kneazle’ may be more accurate, but Harry decides not to comment, especially after his and Malfoy’s unspoken truce earlier in the day.

“Donate much to charity, your parents?” Vernon asks in a way that he probably thinks is delicate.

“Oh yes, my mother, in particular, takes a tremendous amount of pride in being able to help those in need,” Malfoy smiles charmingly across the table, a sharp contrast to the vicious kick he aims at Harry’s leg under the table when he chokes on his mouthful of chicken.

Vernon nods grandly as if he has expected as much, the shameless sycophant. “Good on her. I could tell immediately you were from a superior breed.” Harry bites down on the inside of his cheek to stop himself from rolling his eyes. “Your father, is he a businessman?” Vernon asks, eyes glittering with interest.

Harry stares at his uncle before shooting a look at Malfoy next to him, who seems in his element. He has a polite smile on his face, holding his wine glass delicately between his fingers as he swirls the liquid around in a way that screams familiarity.

“He works for the government mostly, as did his own father and his father before him. The Malfoy name is rather prominent in our world and we usually use it for philanthropy, but it is important to have a say in the decisions regarding our country, wouldn't you agree?” Malfoy says smoothly, his tone perfectly aristocratic, and for once Harry watches the pureblood dance with new eyes, seeing the insincerity for what it is and finding the whole thing both fascinating and vaguely amusing.

Malfoy flicks his eyes to Harry’s face, quirking his lips into an almost invisible smirk at whatever he reads there. Harry twitches one eyebrow in response before turning back to his plate.

“Of course, of course! If important decisions were left to the common man, things would turn to chaos!” Vernon booms importantly, looking at Malfoy with a whole new level of respect while blissfully ignoring the fact that he is, in fact, a ‘common man’.

“Malfoy’s father even fought in the first wizarding war,” Harry pipes up, smiling innocently at Malfoy from beneath his lashes when the blonde turns towards him with a look of barely concealed unease.

“He did?” Petunia asks in awe. “I heard about that from my sister.”

Harry snaps his head towards her, his fork hovering in front of his gaping mouth.  

“Terrible business, that,” Vernon adds solemnly as if it’s something they talk about every day. Harry turns from his aunt to blink at his uncle, fighting the urge to fling the piece of broccoli on his fork across to table at his giant fat head. Heart thudding painfully, Harry grips the metal tightly while slowly and deliberately lowering it back onto his plate and away from temptation.  

“It was. An awful time,” Malfoy agrees, shifting slightly in his seat and reaching for his glass again, taking a large gulp. “A time we can all learn from,” he mutters quietly once he has swallowed, eyes downcast.

Harry watches Malfoy from the corner of his eye, his paler-than-usual face and white knuckles from where his fingers are clenched around his wine glass, and feels something swell in his chest. Without thinking too much about it, he slides his hand under the table and squeezes Malfoy’s knee, letting go almost immediately and reaching for his glass of water when Malfoy jerks, spilling a drop of wine on the table, his eyes a little wide.

“Oh dear!” Petunia exclaims, rising from her chair to grab a tea-towel from the unit.

Malfoy’s hand immediately reaches for his wand in his pocket and Harry tenses, about to intervene, but before he can react the hand swipes over it and quickly reaches up to take the material from Petunia with unsteady fingers as she goes to mop up the mess. Malfoy murmurs a gracious, “No please, allow me.” He dabs the stain from the tablecloth, shooting a disapproving look at Harry who glances away, trying to look unaffected by his own impulsive gesture.

A gesture of solidarity, Harry tells himself. That’s all it was. He takes another sip of water.

 

* * *

 

A couple of hours later, Harry finds himself absently flicking through a transfiguration textbook on his bed, trying hard to stop his eyes flicking towards the blonde boy across from him who sits with his back against the wall, socked feet planted on the air mattress in front of him. He has a book propped up on his thighs, using it as a solid surface as he scribbles away on a piece of parchment resting on the cover. The tip of his tongue is peeking out between his lips as he concentrates, a habit Harry had noticed multiple times during their shared classes at school.

Neither have said a word to each other since dinner, but the silence is surprisingly comfortable and easy and nothing at all like the past few days of awkwardness and resentment. Harry sends a tiny smile down at the words on his page, not taking anything in. Not in a million years did he ever think he could be sitting in a confined space with Draco Malfoy, feeling relaxed and content to not have his wand within arms reach. Strange how things turn out.

When dinner had finished and they had both made their way upstairs, Harry had stepped into his room, pausing by his bed and turning back when he noticed that Malfoy hadn’t immediately followed him inside. The blonde was standing at the threshold, staring at the locks on the door. Harry had swallowed and, as if hearing it, Malfoy had looked up with a carefully blank expression and stepped inside, kicking the door shut behind him a little bit harder than was necessary before flopping down on his mattress. Harry had tried to push aside the weird suffocating feeling in his chest and think about something else.

Now, Harry’s mind wanders back to their conversation earlier, his little confession about the locks on his door and how Malfoy had taken it. The way the blonde had tried to make light of the situation and make Harry laugh when he saw how uncomfortable Harry was, the way his grey eyes had shone with understanding that makes Harry wonder exactly how ‘perfect’ his pureblood upbringing had actually been. It’s hard to imagine Lucius Malfoy as a doting and caring father, especially when Harry has seen first hand how utterly vile he is to those he deems ‘lesser’ than him. It wouldn't surprise him if the man saw his son as ‘lesser’. Harry admits that he really doesn’t know very much about how traditional pureblood families run, the only experience he has of this is either from the Weasleys - who pride themselves on shunning every pureblood tradition - and Sirius’ vague accounts of the horrendous childhood he had endured and eventually fled from sixteen.

Harry glances up at Malfoy again, the connection between his godfather and the blonde not going unnoticed. He wonders suddenly if Malfoy had ever heard much about his second cousin other than that from the media before he was killed, but somehow can’t bring himself to ask him. Instead, he finds himself pointing out something that Harry had noticed hours ago;

“You’ve caught the sun.”

Malfoy’s head snaps up immediately, eyebrows raising when he finds Harry watching him. “Excuse me?”

“You’ve caught the sun,” Harry repeats mildly. “There, across your-” he reaches up with his index finger and traces a line across the top of his own cheeks and the bridge of his nose.  

Malfoy blinks at him, placing his quill next to him before reaching up slowly to press the back of his fingers against one pink cheek. He must feel the warmth there because a second later his expression shifts into a horrified look and his other hand reaches up to feel his other cheek.

“Oh my-is it bad?” he demands in a panic, dropping both hands and glancing around the room desperately for what Harry assumes is a mirror.

Harry snorts in amusement. “No, it’s only a bit red,” he assures him. Which turns out to _not_ be the best thing to say.

 _“‘Only a bit red?’”_ Malfoy cries, aghast, chucking his parchment to one side and darting off his bed and over to Harry’s desk, roughly pulling open the drawers to search inside, flinging out old screwed up pieces of paper, pens and quills onto the floor.

“Oi, do you mind!” Harry exclaims, watching in vague despair as his room is slowly trashed but not caring enough to do much else except shout about it. He closes his book with a snap, however, feeling like that’s enough.

“Do you not own a mirror, Potter!?” Malfoy snaps in agitation, before immediately scoffing and shaking his head in a disparaging manner, giving Harry an unimpressed once-over. “What am I saying, _of course_ you don’t.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Harry drawls without much heat, sitting up to watch him from a better angle.

Malfoy, realising a lost cause when he sees one, gives up emptying the contents of Harry’s desk and tries to catch his reflection in the window in front of him, turning his head this way and that.

“My creamy, alabaster complexion! It’s _tainted!_ I look like a common farmer boy,” Malfoy howls in misery, covering his cheeks with his hands to hide his shame.

 _‘Creamy?’_ Harry mouths to no one.

Malfoy rushes over to his trunk, bending so far inside it Harry suspects he will fall in. After a few seconds of furious digging and muttering, Malfoy let’s out a little ‘ah ha!’ of triumph and stands up, a small vial clutched in his hand.

“Hold on, you forgot to bring a _mirror_ but thought to pack _After-sun?_ ” Harry asks in disbelief.

“What on earth is ‘After-sun’?” Malfoy asks in bewilderment. “This is a mild healing potion, which - surprise, surprise - I figured may be somewhat necessary, considering my circumstance.” He raises his pale eyebrows, waving the bottle in Harry’s direction.

Fair point.

“You forgot to bring a _mirror,_ though?” Harry presses with a smirk, feeling like this is an important point when taking into account who exactly he is talking to.

Malfoy scowls. “I was in a rush,” he mutters, flouncing out of the room and down the hall towards the bathroom.

Harry sighs and shakes his head, wondering when it would be an appropriate time to bring up the topic again. Curiosity eats away at him whenever he thinks about it, especially after their chat earlier, but the impending cutting remarks of an uncomfortable Malfoy and the subsequent argument makes him bite his tongue, even if the boy did promise to tell Harry what had transpired.

Malfoy returns a second later looking thoroughly annoyed and slams the door shut behind him, throwing himself onto his bed and shoving his face into his pillow in the melodramatic fashion that Harry has always associated with him and him alone.

“Someone in the loo?” Harry deduces, staring at the back of his blonde head.

“Dudley,” Malfoy’s muffled voice groans from within his pillow.

Harry winces. “Better to give it at least half an hour, then,” he advises.

Malfoy rolls his face to the side to look at Harry miserably. “It _burns,_ Potter,” he whines.

“It does not,” Harry snorts, rolling his eyes and very aware of the fact that the blonde hadn’t noticed any ‘pain’ until Harry had pointed it out.

“I’m disfigured.”

Harry raises his eyebrows and blinks slowly at Malfoy, his flawless complexion tainted only by a hint of pink. Harry makes a show of squinting at him for a long moment, before widening his eyes. _“Oh my God,”_ he gasps.

Malfoy sits up in a flash, terror written across his face and he gently prods at his cheeks with his free hand. “What? What is it?”

“It’s getting worse!” Harry declares in alarm, pointing at his face.

 _“What!?”_ Maloy screeches, diving off the bed towards the window again, almost tripping over his own feet.

Harry bursts out laughing, chortling louder when Malfoy stops trying to examine himself in the glass and turns a vicious glare towards him.

“That’s not funny,” he growls, crossing his arms with a face full of hatred.

“You’re ridiculous,” Harry snickers, moving to sit cross-legged at the head of his bed, hands folded behind his head.

“You’re an arsehole,” Malfoy snaps, stomping back towards his side of the room and turning away to press the back of his hand against his cheek again, obviously thinking he is being more subtle than he actually is.

“Come here,” Harry snorts, gesturing at the space on his mattress in front of him when Malfoy drops his hand and looks over his shoulder.

Malfoy stares at him, frozen. “What?”

“Come here, I’ll apply it for you,” Harry explains in exasperation, rolling his eyes and tapping the duvet again.

Malfoy doesn’t move, just watches Harry warily.

Harry rolls his eyes again - one day they’re going pop out of their sockets, he’s sure of it - and slaps the duvet with one palm once more. “Hurry up, god, the quicker it’s done the quicker you can stop whinging, you brat.”

This makes Malfoy move. “I wasn’t _whinging_ ,” he sniffs indignantly, stepping towards Harry’s bed. He pauses for a moment before climbing onto the sheets with an all-suffering sigh.

 _“Ridiculous,”_ Harry repeats pointedly as Malfoy settles himself in front of him, mimicking his pose. Malfoy doesn’t respond, looking down at the bottle with a carefully blank expression.

Harry holds out his hand expectantly. Malfoy glances up, face considering.

“I’m not going to get it in your eyes, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Harry promises with an impatient huff.

“Maybe you should try that _yourself_ , fix your appalling vision,” Malfoy quips, but passes over the vial.

Harry ignores him, scooting closer so their knees touch. He pops out the cork and pours the cool gel onto the fingers of his right hand. It numbs the tips of his fingers pleasantly, a sweet floral scent drifting into the air between them that reminds him of the hospital wing at Hogwarts. When he looks back up, Malfoy is staring at him again with an odd expression. As soon as their eyes meet, however, his face twists into his trademark sneer.

“Chop chop, Potter, we haven't got all day,” he drawls, accent exaggerated.

Harry huffs again, but raises his hand and hovers it over one pink cheekbone. Something makes him pause, a sudden realisation of just how bizarre this scene is. How close they are sitting together, the warm press of Malfoy’s knees against his own. He can feel Malfoy’s breath on his cold fingers, quicker than usual. Spies Malfoy’s Adam's apple bob as he swallows. Can see the silver specks in his wide eyes that Harry has never been close enough to notice before. Harry’s own heart rate has picked up without him even realising, the calm _boom boom_ increasing into a disconcerting rhythm usually reserved for when he’s playing Quidditch or fighting with Lucas.

Before Harry can think too deeply about his body’s odd reaction and lose his nerve, he closes the gap between his hand and the face before him and smears the gel across the warm skin.

Malfoy inhales sharply when Harry’s fingers make contact, eyes fluttering closed and eyebrows twitching into a tiny frown.

Harry draws his hand away quickly. “Does it hurt?” he asks quietly.

“No,” Malfoy whispers, eyes still hidden behind pale lids and a fan of white lashes. “Get on with it will you,” he snaps a second later, sounding put-out.

Harry scowls but chews his bottom lip for a moment before reaching forward again and gently rubbing the potion into the heated cheek. He works in silence, heart in his throat, and blinks in surprise when Malfoy leans slightly into his touch. Harry takes the opportunity to examine the sharp features in front of him while Malfoy’s eyes are still closed; the straight line of his nose, the freckle under his left eye he has never seen before. Malfoy’s skin is soft and smooth, the perks of youth and a full bank vault - Harry wonders absently how much he spends on skin care potions.

Once the gel has been absorbed fully into his left cheek, Harry draws back to add more into his hand and swipes it onto the right. He finds himself carefully tracing the thin skin under Malfoy’s eye, his lashes brushing the very tips of his fingers. Malfoy’s eyes twitch behind his lids at the contact.

“Get it in my eye and you soon won’t have yours, Potter,” he threatens, but it comes out breathless and soft, making Harry swallow hard and brush at the delicate skin once more before edging back down to where his cheek actually needs the potion. He continues to massage it in for a tad longer than is necessary, reluctant to move his hand away for a reason he refuses to think too hard about, and dances his fingers further down towards the dip under Malfoy’s cheekbone with little strokes.

Harry adopts a look of deep concentration - not that Malfoy is looking at him or even that the task _needs_ a whole lot of concentration - but it makes him feel a little more stable, especially when he notices the slight tremble in his fingers. Wondering what on earth he is doing, but unable to stop the gradual drifting of his fingers, Harry lets out a sharp exhale when Malfoy’s lips part slightly just as his fingertips come to rest at the corner of his mouth.

Harry tries to convince himself that the sunkissed, pink flush of Malfoy’s cheekbones has simply spread down into that area and he’s just being thorough. It doesn’t work.

Harry stills his fingers, eyes scanning Malfoy’s face for any sign of a reaction. His expression doesn’t change, but he lets out a slow stuttered exhale that brushes Harry’s skin.

A blissfully blank fog wraps around Harry’s mind, muffling the voice of reason as his thumb moves of its own accord, drifting forward to place a feather-light touch onto Malfoy’s bottom lip for half a second before pulling away again. Malfoy twitches, the tip of his tongue darting out to taste the spot where Harry’s thumb had been a second before. Harry watches in fascination as it retreats behind the barrier of white teeth once again.

Stomach clenched and breath held deep in his lungs, Harry stares at the now-glistening lip, unconsciously wetting his own. His thumb reaches out again, tentatively, and hovers for a moment before brushing a slow line across the bottom lip, and it’s soft and damp and warm. Malfoy’s mouth opens wider under his touch and Harry suddenly realises he’s now breathing almost as heavily as the other boy. The realisation sparks a moment of clarity within him and the fog evaporates, leaving behind panic and confusion.

Harry jerks his hand away, but when Malfoy flinches he lets out a deliberately slow breath and shifts slightly, trying to keep his movements casual so that Malfoy doesn’t sense his guilt and alarm.

_What the hell was that, Potter!?_

Harry clenches his jaw and coats his fingers again with the gel, quickly applying it to the bridge of Malfoy’s nose, working with professional efficiency as he tries to regulate his breathing without it being too obvious. The result makes him start hyperventilating a little, but at least it’s silent.

He has no idea what Malfoy is thinking, wondering why the boy didn’t pull away in disgust and dismay when Harry’s fingers had begun the steady journey of descent. The blonde’s eyes are still firmly shut, face utterly void of any expression. He could be asleep if it weren't for the fact he is sitting upright.

The gel thankfully sinks in quickly and Harry pulls his hand away with a too-loud and too-cheery, “All done!” and wipes his fingers on his bed covers. Malfoy jerks his head back and snaps his eyes open. Harry immediately lowers his gaze to focus on his hands as he tries to shove the cork back into the vial.

Malfoy clears his throat after a moment of uncomfortable silence. “How do I look?” His voice is a little raspy and he clears his throat again.

Task complete and having no other alternative, Harry rearranges his features into something he hopes is casual and looks up. Malfoy is watching him with that same too-blank expression, eyes dark.

“Creamy,” Harry teases with a strained grin, and it’s a barefaced lie because Malfoy’s cheeks are still stained pink, but Harry assumes the potion just takes a minute or two to kick in.

One corner of Malfoy’s mouth quirks up and Harry has to look away quickly when his eyes are drawn to the bottom lip he had swiped his thumb across not a minute earlier.

“Thank you,” Malfoy murmurs, tone inscrutable and fingers twisting together in his lap.

“No worries,” Harry says brightly with a shrug and blindly holds out the vial towards the other boy, pushing himself backwards and off the bed in the same movement.

Malfoy fumbles to take it as Harry turns his back to him and stretches his arms above his head with a large fake yawn.

“Should probably wash this off,” Harry mumbles, rubbing his numb fingertips together and beginning a nonchalant stroll towards the door, trying to make it look like he’s _not_ desperate to escape.

“Potter.”

Malfoy’s low voice makes Harry pause and look over his shoulder reluctantly, feeling too hot and slightly constricted in his clothes, heart still thudding uncomfortably. Malfoy’s eyes are intense, his jaw clenched tightly as he glances down at the vial in his hand before looking back up.

“Hm?” Harry prompts, eyebrows raised and shoving his unsteady hands into his jeans pockets to hide his trembling fingers.

“Those bruises on your face,” Malfoy begins slowly, voice still eerily calm. “I mean, you could... _I_ could-” he looks back down at the vial. “If you wanted?” He glances back up at Harry’s face, tone reasonable, one eyebrow raised in question.

Harry hesitates. He knows exactly what Malfoy is offering. He is tempted to comply, to sit back down across from the blonde and watch him coat his slender fingers with the cool gel and-

 _Not a good idea Harry,_ his internal Hermione-voice advises and Harry wholeheartedly agrees, if a little reluctantly.

Harry decides to ‘misinterpret’ the proposal and shoots Malfoy a grateful smile. “Oh, good idea. Nice one, cheers.” He darts back over and plucks the vial out of Malfoy’s hand, spinning on his heel and fleeing the room before Malfoy can do anything more than blink in surprise.

Harry dives into the bathroom, which is now blessedly Dudley-free, and locks the door behind him before immediately spinning on his heel and turning on the shower.

“What the fuck, what the _fuck,”_ Harry breathes in a panic, his voice masked by the running water as he shoves the potion vial onto the side of the sink next to the hand soap with stumbling fingers. He grips the sink with both hands, staring up at his face in the mirror. His eyes are wide, lips pale where they are pinched together, face a collage of tanned skin with smears of blues and purples, yellows and green.

God, he really looks a state.

Funny to think that _Malfoy_ has been more concerned about his bruised face than his actual family. Had always been more concerned, apparently, enough to write it down. Harry can’t contain a hysterical giggle, wide eyes going a little manic.

Trust Harry to end a series of dysfunctional scenarios with one person before immediately hopping into another with Draco _sodding_ Malfoy, of all people.

Harry lets out a high pitched laugh again before pulling a face at himself. “I hate you,” he tells himself and turns away from his reflection, quickly undressing.

He climbs into the bath, the hot steam fogging his vision even more as he abandons his glasses. He stands under the spray for a long moment, the water heating his bones and it’s _wonderful._

Harry reaches out an unsteady hand and turns the knob, the spray turning colder and colder. He tilts his face into the cool stream, closing his eyes and trying to wash away the confusing feelings from the scene he just fled from.

Harry tries. He _tries_ to ignore the way his fingers shake as they lather shampoo into his hair, the shivers that shoot almost painfully across his skin that have nothing to do with the cool water cascading over his body.

The only thing he can compare this feeling to is when anticipating danger, your body on high alert, fight or flight. It’s a feeling Harry has experienced many times, but never in a situation like...well, like _that._ Not even with Lucas did his teeth chatter with adrenaline, the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. It must be the taboo of exactly _who_ he was just in that situation with, skimming his fingers over soft skin, high aristocratic cheekbones, plump lips-

Harry scrubs himself raw, unaware of the ink washing away from his arm, the numbers flowing down the drain along with his fear.

 

* * *

 

_Harry is dreaming. He knows he is dreaming because Ron has pink hair and is breakdancing with Slughorn. Harry claps, impressed, and smiles at Dumbledore who is swaying along to the music next to him._

_The scene shifts and Luna asks Harry why he’s so scared._

_“I’m not scared,” Harry replies and it’s true._

_Lucius Malfoy walks onto the Quidditch pitch and laughs, pointing at Harry and laughing and laughing. He laughs for hours, so much that it becomes shrill. Turns into a scream._

_Harry winces at the sound, glancing down at the golden egg in his hands. He closes it quickly but the sound continues, gets louder._

_“Shut up!” he shouts at it. Shakes it vigorously. It continues._

_“Stop!”_

Harry jerks awake, the shout ringing in his ears. His room is dark, a stream of moonlight cascading across the floor and resting on the corner of Malfoy’s mattress. Harry blinks across the room, watches Malfoy’s form twisting and turning in his bed. A low whimper comes from the blankets and Harry sits up, a bit unnerved.

“Malfoy,” Harry whispers, rubbing his eyes with two fingers.

Malfoy jerks in his sleep but doesn’t wake, twisting the sheets between his legs as he murmurs something intelligible in distress. Harry frowns, heart thudding.

“Oi, Malfoy.”

Nothing.  

 _“Draco!”_ Harry finds himself hissing, the name foreign on his tongue. It does the trick. Malfoy gasps and stills, eye’s shooting open. He immediately turns his head to stare at Harry, pupils dilated in fear.

Harry blinks at him, staring in concern. “You okay?”

Malfoy nods, expression still wild as if Harry is a hippogriff about to charge at him and he has nowhere to run.

“Sure?” Harry breathes. He swallows, the bright beam of a passing car cascading across the room for a moment, illuminating Malfoy’s wide grey eyes.

Malfoy looks away, sucking in deep breaths. Harry watches him, allows the blonde to centre himself as he, himself, slowly lowers back down and onto his side. Malfoy, in contrast, sits up but drops his head low, hunching over his knees, hands clenched in his lap. Harry opens his mouth. Closes it again.

Malfoy breathes slowly. Deliberately. He calms himself, clears his throat. Doesn’t say anything.

Harry slides his hand under his cheek, wondering what the other boy was dreaming about. He doesn’t ask, aware of the number of times he’s woken Malfoy with his own nightmares and how the other boy never said anything or asked for details.

Silence fills the room. Malfoy sits frozen. Lets out a deep breath. He lowers himself onto his back again, staring at the ceiling.

Neither boy speak. After a while, Harry can’t stop his eyes from drifting closed once more, sleep pulling at him. Just as he’s nodding off, his mattress dips and he jerks, opening his eyes in surprise.

Malfoy sits on the edge of Harry’s bed, his back to him. Harry doesn’t move, holds his breath. Stares at the straight line of his spine under his thin pyjama shirt. A long moment passes and then Malfoy peeks over his shoulder, sees Harry watching him. They stare at each other.

When it’s clear Malfoy isn’t going to say or do anything except stare at Harry with too-wide eyes, Harry yawns and then - deliberately not thinking too much about it - shifts over and lifts the corner of his duvet in invitation.

Malfoy hesitates for only a second, his expression hidden in shadow, before moving to slip under the covers, laying on his side with his back to Harry.

There isn’t much room, what with the bed being a single and all, and Harry finds himself shifting closer to slot himself behind the other boy to stop himself being flattened against the wall.

He feels Malfoy tense and Harry holds himself very still for a second before his half-asleep body relaxes automatically. Harry yawns again, his exhale shifting the blonde strands in front of his face.

Malfoy slowly slumps down into the pillows with a sigh, the tense line of his back relaxing, and tugs the duvet up a little higher under his chin.

Harry closes his eyes, feeling comfortable and warm, and sleeps.


	10. That was Malfoy's fault too

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, back again, nice to see you all. I would stick branches to my skin and wrap fairy lights around my body and stand in the corner of all of your livings rooms and be the best damn Christmas tree if that's what you wanted <3  
> Ettie is a babe neVER FORGET.
> 
> enjoy

* * *

 

Harry has an itch. It’s on his thigh and he wills his arm to move, wills his hand to reach down and scratch it. It doesn’t. In fact, Harry can’t feel his left arm at all.

His eyes snap open in vague, sleepy alarm and turns his head to see if his arm is, in fact, still there at all. It is. It is. However, instead of just seeing his outstretched arm across his pillow he also sees the back of a pale blonde head resting on his bicep, successfully cutting off the blood flow and making the limb numb.

The memories of last night come flooding back in full force. Malfoy and his conversation, the way he had delicately explored Malfoy’s face as he had applied the soothing healing potion. His fingers brushing over soft lips. Malfoy’s face, eyes closed and expressionless, his breath tickling Harry’s fingers with every shallow inhale, exhale. Then waking up in the night when Malfoy had called out in his sleep, face contorting in terror. Malfoy climbing into bed with him. Harry not even hesitating to shift over and allow him space.

It should feel weird, Harry thinks as he squints into the early morning light filtering through his curtains. It should feel weird having Malfoy snoring softly on his arm, his other resting across the other boy's waist, rising and falling softly with his breathing. But it doesn’t. Harry doesn’t know if this is just because he’s half asleep and not thinking clearly.

Harry yawns, trying to flex his fingers to get the blood pumping into them. Malfoy shifts and mumbles something in his sleep. He rolls onto his back, one hand reaching up to rub absently at his scrunched up nose and Harry watches him with hooded eyes, wondering how the boy will react if he wakes up now but he’s still relaxed enough to not care too much about it.

He doesn’t wake up. In fact, Malfoy’s arm flops back down and he turns on his side again, this time facing Harry and drapes his arm across Harry’s chest, shifting so his head is pillowed on his shoulder. He lets out a deep sigh and falls silent and still once more.  

Harry gently eases his arm up from under the other boy and twirls it into the air lazily, feeling the rush of blood pouring back into it. He blinks slowly, heavy eyes roaming over the soft face next to him, a gentle golden glow haloing around Malfoy’s face. It’s cliche to say that Malfoy looks younger in his sleep, but he does. He rarely twists his sharp features into sneers and scowls - probably with a bucket load of effort. These days he prefers to stare blankly and disinterested at Harry when he’s annoyed or uncomfortable, which Harry finds more unnerving than he should. Now, however, with the silence of the house and the quiet chirping of birds outside Harry’s window, the low sunrise warming his pale complexion, Malfoy looks almost angelic. Harry remembers last year overhearing a couple of Slytherin girls from the year below whispering to each other about the possibility of Malfoy being part-Veela, and Harry had snorted the absurdity of that at the time. But, he supposes, he had never seen the other boy’s face relaxed and _sweet,_ and he hates to admit it now but he sees what they had meant.    

He is constantly baffled by the change in the boy, who seems to have grown up rapidly in the few weeks after they had broken up from school - never to return now, he supposes - to now. Harry feels a sharp pang in his chest at what may have occurred to inspire this change of character, for the first time his usual curiosity is mixed with a hint of concern that Harry is too tired to analyse right now. He’s not dense enough to not realise something major has shifted in their relationship, he has a little flutter of excitement at being able to spend more time with the blonde and having the opportunity to chip away at the little things Malfoy is trying to hide and suppress. He’s never given much thought to Malfoy as an actual _person_ other than him being a privileged dickhead who is dramatic and nasty and smug. Now, however, he’s watched Malfoy charm his way onto his magic-hating relative's good side, shouted at the stupidity of Harry deliberately seeking out ways to hurt himself and effortlessly picked up on the reasons _why,_ taking the time to explain just that in an effort to _help him._

Harry doesn’t know if it’s only because Malfoy is worried about how it would affect _him_ , regardless of what the blonde had said days prior. He rather suspects it’s something else if his journal has anything to do by. And he started that list from the first night he was here.

Wondering the time, Harry blinks over at his small alarm clock on his bedside table and has a momentary pang of panic that he has to get up _now_ if he wants to meet Lucas in time. Then remembers. It’s fine. He can actually sleep in. He has no more morning commitments.

With that thought in mind, Harry turns over and backs into the other boy’s embrace, closing his eyes once more and slips peacefully back to sleep.

 

* * *

 

“You know, I really do _despise_ you, Potter.”

Of course, the peace didn’t last very long. Both boys were currently trying to make breakfast together and Harry has apparently tried to correct Malfoy’s whisking technique one too many times and now the blonde is currently in the midst of a full-blown tantrum. Things have turned personal very quickly.

 _“You do?_ You say that as if it’s news to me, as if the feeling isn’t mutual!” Harry snaps, trying to pry the bowl of pancake batter out of Malfoy’s grip.

Malfoy yanks it away again, narrowly avoiding upturning the entire contents onto the floor. “You really are the biggest arsehole I’ve ever met, but _oh no, let’s not talk about how Harry Potter is a giant twat, didn’t you hear how he’d saved the world again last week!?”_

“Well I did, didn’t I! What’s your excuse? Being brought up in a giant mansion and being spoon-fed privilege and racism by your golden fucking peacocks!?” Harry dives for whisk in Malfoy’s hand instead, managing to wrap his fingers around the utensil before it can be snatched away.

“They. Are. _White_.” Malfoy enunciates every word with an accompanied jerk of the whisk.

“Incredible! You must feel so proud,” Harry snorts sarcastically, not letting go.

“I am proud, Potter! And it is that fact alone why I cannot stay in this sewer drain of a house any longer!” Malfoy cries, managing to pull the whisk free of Harry’s grasp and flicking pale batter across the kitchen.

“Oh, is not being murdered by Voldemort not living up to your standards?” Harry snipes, irritated, snatching up a tea towel to wipe away the mess on his palm.

“Rather be murdered by the Dark Lord than live the rest of my days rotting away in Azkaban after murdering _you,”_ Malfoy growls, pointing the whisk threateningly in Harry’s face.

Harry lets out a biting laugh, slapping the offending tool away from himself with one hand. “There’s a headline for you; _‘Draco Malfoy Willingly Sacrifices Himself After Admitting He Could No Longer Resist The Temptation Of Dark Magic!’”_

“I don’t need dark magic to kill you, Potter, I have two _very_ capable hands,” Malfoy snarls, jabbing the whisk towards Harry’s head again.

Harry dodges it, taking a step back. “What are you waiting for then? Make a decision; try and _whisk_ me to death or piss off and die out there.” He points towards the kitchen door expectantly.

Malfoy stills, breathing a little heavily, but stands with the whisk outstretched in front of him as if it’s his wand, eyes narrowed into angry slits.

“Or stay here and _live_ and stop being an arse,” Harry continues harshly but lowers his voice, aware of his aunt in the living room.

Malfoy glares at him for a moment longer before dropping his arm with an angry jerk and spinning back towards the unit. He slams the bowl back onto the counter, shoving in the whisk and mixing the batter furiously. He grumbles something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like ‘ _You_ stop being an arse.’

Harry sighs, rubbing his hands across his face before belatedly noticing he’s just smeared the pancake mixture onto his cheeks. He snatches up the tea towel again, rubbing it across his face and hands, murmuring tiredly, “Jesus, do you have any idea the sheer amount of bullshit I’ve had to put up with from you since you got here?”

“Yes, I was there,” Malfoy retorts immediately in a clipped tone.

Harry glances up, Malfoy is scowling down into the bowl, the mixture flying everywhere. Harry suddenly sees the whole situation for the ridiculousness that it is and can’t stop an involuntary snort of amusement. He watches as Malfoy’s lips twitch in response, his mixing arm slowing to a gradual stop.

“We need to try and learn to get along,” Harry says quietly a moment later, dropping the towel back onto the unit next to him.

Malfoy turns his head to give him a look of disbelief. “No, we don’t. We just have to make sure we don’t kill each other.”

“Same difference,” Harry finds himself grinning and Malfoy lets out a soft chuckle.

He lets Harry finish making the pancakes and they’re delicious.

 

* * *

 

Around lunch time, Dudley - having apparently just woken up - appears from his room and sticks his head into their bedroom where Malfoy is quizzing Harry on the ingredients of various potions and taking great delight in correcting every mistake Harry makes. Which is many.

“Hey Draco, want to-” Dudley stops, noticing Harry lounging across his bed and suddenly looks very sheepish.

 _Ah. The gaming._ Harry had forgotten about that.

“Did it come?” Malfoy asks excitedly, sitting up.

Dudley nods at him, trying and failing to hide his enthusiasm as he fights to suppress a grin. Malfoy jumps up immediately and Harry opens his own potions textbook, settling in to read and stamping down the little pang of disappointment in his chest.

A pale hand suddenly snatches the book away and Harry jumps in surprise, staring up at Malfoys eager face.

“No time for that, Potter. We’re going to learn how to drive!” His grey eyes are sparkling. _“Cars!”_ He grabs Harry’s arm and drags him up and out of the room.

Dudley tries to explain that they are _not,_ in fact, learning to drive as they head down the hall, but Malfoy insists it’s as close as with an important sniff and Dudley gives up pretty quickly.

Harry is a little reluctant to get involved, this is Dudley and Malfoys _thing_ and he feels like he’s intruding. His pride holds him back, years of purposefully not being included in the activity makes him a bit touchy. But Malfoy shoves him down on Dudley’s bed before sitting next to him, close enough that their thighs brush, and bounces in excitement as the larger boy sets up his PlayStation. Harry can’t help the tiny smile quirking his lips as he watches the blonde from the corner of his eye, never in his life would he had ever expected to see Malfoy voluntarily want to play a muggle game, let alone sit there almost vibrating in anticipation and letting out a small cheer when the bright opening credits roll onto the screen.

Dudley admits awkwardly that only two players can play at once, and Malfoy shoots Harry big blue and blatant puppy dog eyes, which makes him roll his own and wave away Dudley’s painful offer to let Harry play first.

“You two go ahead, I’m happy to watch,” Harry says with good grace, in lieu of pointing out that he would have absolutely no idea where to even _begin_ trying to navigate his way around the controllers.

He watches Malfoy’s long fingers jab and press at the buttons for a few minutes, but one short glance at the screen shows the blondes bright green car smashing into yet _another_ wall and so Harry turns his attention to Dudley’s controller instead, figuring out the movements quickly enough.

When it’s his turn to play, Harry is pleased to say that he doesn't crash his car once. He even beats Dudley at a few laps. Malfoy demands a go at racing against Harry, of course, but only once. After his initial loss, he refuses to play again, stating that he’s bored with the game. Harry knows he just doesn’t want to deal with the embarrassment of losing against a novice again, and Malfoy doesn’t help his case by sulking for half an hour.

“You just got lucky,” he pouts when Dudley leaves for a quick toilet break.

“Rematch then?” Harry offers, dangling Dudley’s controller by the wire in front of Malfoy’s face. It’s weird, he shouldn’t be enjoying himself playing games with his cousin and Draco Malfoy, but he is. After Dudley got over his previous awkwardness, the room was filled with a competitive air, huffs and chuckles and cheers and fist pumps.

“No thank you, I have better things to do with my time,” Malfoy drawls, turning away but making no other effort to move.

“Scared, Malfoy?” Harry smirks at his sharp profile, eyes twinkling.

Malfoy nearly chokes, eyes shooting to Harry’s face and flicking over the mischief written across his expression. He recovers. Grins.

“You wish.”

The game ends in a draw.

 

* * *

 

“I’m heading out. The place needs hoovering and dusting,” Petunia hints, rather unsubtly as she pairs this with a pointed look at Harry, and retreats behind their door once more. Harry waits until he hears the front door click shut before letting out a loud groan.  

“What on earth is _hoovering?”_

Harry glances over at Malfoy, sitting at Harry’s desk with a bewildered expression. An image pops into his head and Harry starts laughing. Malfoy scowls at him. Harry laughs harder.

As is expected, Malfoy is terrified of the hoover.  

“Why is it making that noise!? KEEP IT AWAY FROM ME!” Malfoy screeches over the loud hum, diving onto the sofa as Harry leisurely pushes the appliance towards his feet.

“I _told_ you to stay upstairs,” Harry shouts back at him, cackling madly as he jabs at the bottom of the sofa.

“Seriously, Potter, stop it!” Malfoy cries, hopping onto another cushion. “I’ll end your life, I swear to Morgana!”   

Harry throws back his head as he laughs, following the other boy’s movements. A hard thump of a pillow landing square in his face sobers him up pretty quick.

Well, for a moment anyway. He abandons the hoover where it is and snatches the offending pillow from the floor and charges at the blonde with a war cry, tackling him down onto the cushions.

 _“You fiend, you barbaric philistine!”_ Malfoy can be heard yelling over the drone of the hoover, over the repeated thump of a pillow over his head. He lashes out with another pillow though, just as savagely, and the words seem rather hypocritical, if Harry may say so.

They’re rolling together and end up on the floor and are hitting each other with full strength, but it’s only with pillows and it doesn’t really hurt and they’re _laughing_ and Harry didn’t know it could _be like this._

“Get off me you ogre, you’re ruining my hair,” Malfoy pants, face a little pink and trying to scowl as he pushes at Harry’s shoulders, but his eyes are dancing with mirth.

Harry sits back on his heels, grinning down at the wayward blonde locks as he chucks his pillow blindly to one side. He reaches out and tugs lightly on the strand flopping over Malfoy’s forehead. Malfoy slaps his hand away.

“Heaven forbid, I look like _you_ don’t I?” He sounds aghast, eyes flicking to Harry’s stubborn mess of curls.

Harry snorts, reaching for the strand again. Another slap blocks his target. “I like it.”

It’s true, he does. Malfoy looks like he did when he woke up this morning, blinking slowly into the light of the room and burrowing his face into Harry’s neck for a second before apparently remembering who he was and rolling onto his back. His pale hair had fanned across the pillow and his face was still soft with sleep and he had smiled at Harry before sliding out of the sheets and padding off to the bathroom.  

Malfoy squints up at Harry’s looming face. “You would,” he mutters eventually and shoves Harry completely away so he can sit up himself. He combs his fingers through his hair a few times, tucking it behind his ears, face an exaggeration of indignation.

Harry rolls his eyes at him because that’s what he does and crawls over to the hoover to turn it off.

“That is a ghoul,” Malfoy announces, pointing in Harry’s direction.

“What, me or the hoover?”

“Both.”

Malfoy doesn’t help with the hoovering _or_ the dusting, but he fixes up the sofa cushions and makes himself comfortable, letting out a steady stream of criticism as he watches Harry work.

Harry threatens him with the hoover again and he snaps his mouth shut.

 

* * *

 

“What’s going to happen when you turn seventeen?”

They’re lounging on the grass in the garden, side by side. Malfoy had demanded a change in scenery after another aimless hour of reading in Harry’s bedroom. Malfoy had busied himself replying to his habitual morning letter from Remus - Harry hardly spared it a glance, resigned to the fact that he _supposed_ it wasn’t any of his business - but that task hadn’t taken very long. It was a beautiful day, so Harry had agreed, and the moment the warm sun had kissed his cheeks he was instantly glad for the suggestion. The grass is still heated pleasantly despite the fast-approaching afternoon. The sun still high enough in the sky to create a comforting blanket around them. The sweet floral scent of Petunia’s hydrangea bush dances through their hair and tickles at their noses.

Harry rolls his head towards the blonde, hands linked under it and working as a pillow, lazy and relaxed. “What has the Order told you?”

“Nothing. Quite literally.” Malfoy keeps his head tilted towards the sky, resting back on his elbows, long legs outstretched out in front of him and crossed delicately at his ankles.

“Well, you and me both,” Harry replies and it doesn’t come out as bitter as he would have expected. Must be the peace of a sunny afternoon.

Malfoy peers down at him, eyebrow raised. “You really have no idea? Not even a... sneaking suspicion?”

Harry shrugs, theorising. “Well, I suppose they’ll come and collect us. Take us to Grimmauld Place. Or The Burrow.” He shifts, bending one knee and resting his foot on the grass with a sigh of contentment. Harry does have a brief thought as to why Malfoy is asking him, but then again _he_ would certainly want to know where he’s going to end up in a few weeks time. Hell, Harry _does_ want to know, not completely certain himself. But Harry’s had six years of having to just go with the flow, resigned to the fact that the Order will always keep him in the dark. He hopes this changes when he turns seventeen. _God,_ _it better._

Malfoy seems surprised Harry offers that information up so willingly. Harry just quirks an eyebrow in response and closes his eyes, enjoying the feel of the sun on his face. He wonders absently exactly when he had decided to trust Malfoy.

“The Burrow. That’s the Weasley residence, right?” Malfoy asks, voice soft as if reluctant to disturb the peace of the air.

“Mmhm.”

“Why would we go there?”

“Bill, Ron’s brother, he’s getting married,” Harry explains, only just remembering this fact and feels a small pang of excitement. He’s never been to a wedding before.

“I am not invited, Potter,” Malfoy states in a bland tone.

“You can be my plus-one,” Harry smiles cheekily, eyes still closed.

He hears Malfoy snort. “Who’s the lucky lady, anyway?”

“Fleur Delacour.”

_“WHAT?”_

Harry opens his eyes, laughing at the rather high-pitched cry. “You jealous?” he asks, remembering how the boys in his year had followed Delacour around school like lost puppies, offering to carry her books and bags for her. He tries to think if he ever saw Malfoy in that crowd, but can’t recall it. He _was_ a little preoccupied with other things that year, after all.

Malfoy is sitting up and staring down at Harry with wide eyes. “Jealous? I am _shocked and appalled!_ A _Weasley!_ What is she _thinking?”_

“Watch it,” Harry warns mildly, raising himself up on his elbows in an imitation of the blonde boy’s previous position.

“You _do_ know she’s part-Veela?” Malfoy exclaims as if Harry, in fact, did _not_ know that.

“Yes, I noticed. Well, I noticed _Ron_ noticing.” Ron and half the school. When Harry thinks back, he wonders why, at the time, he had never noticed that her Veela charms never affected him. _Pretty big clue there, Potter._

Malfoy just sits shaking his head in sorrow as if some great tragedy has befallen the whole of England.

“Bill is very good-looking,” Harry finds himself saying, picking at the grass with one hand as he pictures Bill’s bright red hair and charming grin. He was still smiling the last time Harry had seen him, face scarred and bloody in hospital after Greyback’s attack.

_That was Malfoy’s fault, too._

The thought is quiet and vicious and Harry clenches his teeth for a moment, pushing it aside forcefully. He could say it, throw it in Malfoy’s face who seems to genuinely not know what happened to Bill during the brief battle at school. Maybe he _does_ know about the attack, maybe even _saw_ it, but just not who was under those slashing teeth and claws. Harry supposes Malfoy will know soon enough if they are, indeed, taken to The Burrow.  

Harry looks over and spies Malfoy shooting him a side-eye look, a hint of a smirk on his lips. Harry replays what he just said and waits for some sly remark about his sexuality but all Malfoy says is, “I should hope so.”

Harry bites his bottom lip, debating with himself for a moment, then thinks _fuck it_ and says, “You know, some of the girls in the year below us used to say you were part-Veela.”

Malfoy raises his eyebrows, looking disgustingly pleased. In the next second, he shifts his expression into his signature self-important look. “I am.”

“No, you’re not,” Harry scoffs.

“I _am,”_ he insists.

“No, what you are is a dirty liar.” Harry really has no way of knowing if Malfoy is telling the truth or not - not exactly being an expert on identifying part-magical creatures - other than the fact that Malfoy is a _terrible_ liar when he’s not actively trying very hard. And he tells the other boy just that.

Malfoy scowls down at him and grumbles, “I _could be_ part-Veela.” He flicks his head into the air, shifting non-existent hair out of his face. He probably thinks it makes him look superior but Harry thinks it just makes him look like a horse.

“Calm down, Narcissus,” Harry chuckles, tilting his head back towards the sky once more.

They sit in companionable silence for a long moment, the gentle breeze ruffling their hair and tugging at their clothes. It’s peaceful and _nice_ and then Malfoy says, utterly remorseless;

“I used to tell everyone you were part-troll.”

Harry punches his shoulder.

“Yeah, I remember.”

 

* * *

 

That night, as they’re getting ready for bed, Harry finally catches a glimpse of The Scars.

Not that he’s been _trying_ to. In fact, and he feels pretty awful admitting this, he had forgotten about the possibility of their existence entirely.

As usual, Malfoy turns his back on Harry as he shrugs out of his shirt and Harry never gave that much thought this past week, but then Malfoy turns a little to grab the dark grey t-shirt he sleeps in and Harry just happened to be looking at him at the time and...Well.

A pointed white line, about an inch wide, curves around his ribcage and up across his chest and Harry can’t even see where it ends but he has a sickening feeling that it runs right across to the other side. And that’s just _one._ Harry only has a second to see before Malfoy is shrugging on the shirt, and he only sees Malfoy’s left side but his torso and chest - and there, there’s even one on his _stomach -_ are scattered with half a dozen pale jagged scars. Scars _Harry_ put there. They look like someone has taken a whip to his chest and it’s awful and Harry feels sick.

Harry doesn’t even register that he’s made a sound, has no idea what the sound even was, but Malfoy stiffens and turns his face towards the wall to this right. He stops it there, doesn’t look around to see Harry’s face. Apparently, he doesn’t need to.

“Shut up, Potter,” he mutters, voice hard and changes quickly out of his trousers and into pyjama bottoms.

“Malfoy…” Harry breathes, no idea what to say, where to even _begin._

Malfoy shoots him a warning glare before snatching up his wash bag and fleeing the room.

Harry lowers himself onto the edge of his bed, swallowing repeatedly. Guilt and shame course through his entire being and he hasn’t felt this awful since he went and got Sirius killed. He clenches his hands into tight fists, trying to think of anything, _anything,_ he could do to make it right, even a little bit.

He needs Hermione. Hermione would know what to do. What to say. Harry isn’t...good at this kind of thing.

When Malfoy re-enters the room, a soft scent of mint accompanying him, Harry decides the best thing to do is not say anything at all. He’s brought this subject up a couple of times already, Malfoy has too, but every time it has, the blonde has shot down Harry’s meagre attempts at an apology. And if Malfoy doesn’t want to talk about it, then Harry sure as hell can respect that at the very least.

Malfoy avoids his eye, busying himself with sorting out his belongings in his trunk. Harry heads to the bathroom in silence.

 

* * *

 

Harry can’t sleep. He suspects Malfoy can’t either going by the unnatural silence from the other side of the room.

It’s late, must be well past midnight. The moon illuminates the curtains and not much else.

Harry shifts, rolls over. He can’t see Malfoy at all, not even his pale hair. Harry yawns and closes his eyes. They slide open again a moment later and he sighs.

“Malfoy?” he whispers across the room.

Nothing. The other boy could be dead he’s so still.

“Draco?” Harry tries instead.

A huff is heard from the other bed. Success.

“What, Potter?” Malfoy hisses, sounding tired and irritated.

“Can you sleep?”

Another huff. “Oh yes, I’m fast asleep,” comes the sarcastic reply, accompanied by a series of fake snores.

Harry snorts. He takes a few deep breaths, thinking of how they had slept so undisturbed and peacefully the night before after Malfoy had slipped into Harry’s bed.

“Do you want to…?” Harry can’t bring himself to finish that sentence, cringing a little into the blackness of the room.

Malfoy doesn’t give any indication he’s heard him and Harry spends the next few minutes resisting the urge to slap himself on the forehead, painfully embarrassed.

Then, without a word, Harry hears the tell-tell sound of shifting bed sheets and the soft pad of feet. He edges backwards, pulling down the corner of his duvet and a slim body slips in next to him immediately. Harry tries to suppress his smile, not that Malfoy can see him, and settles in behind him.

Unlike yesterday, Harry can feel his heart thudding in his chest and wonders if Malfoy can feel it on his back. _Maybe this was a bad idea._ He thought he would feel relaxed, slip quickly to sleep with the other boy’s presence. Instead, he is acutely aware of the warm body pressed up against his, a contrast of sharp angles and soft skin. Harry wiggles, feigning trying to get comfortable as he attempts to shift his chest and hips away from the other boy.

“Stop moving,” Malfoy grumbles, shifting backwards and Harry winces.

Malfoy stills. Harry holds his breath. Then Malfoy starts shaking and it takes a second for Harry to realise he’s laughing quietly under his breath.

“Oh, shut up,” Harry mumbles, glad that the other boy is facing away so he doesn’t see his flushed face. Harry shifts further away and Malfoy sniggers louder.

“Why, Potter, I didn’t know you felt that way about-” he has to stop he's giggling so hard.

“Fuck off,” Harry snaps, rolling onto his back. He covers his burning face with his hands.

Malfoy rolls over and rests his head on Harry’s shoulder. Harry can see the white of his teeth as he grins.

“It’s fine, Harry. Go to sleep.”

The use of his first name makes Harry blink and he glances at Malfoy’s face again. His eyes are closed and he’s still smiling softly.

Harry’s eyes travel further down and he spies Malfoy’s - _Draco’s -_ t-shirt where it’s risen up to his navel. The end of a scar is clear in the moonlight and Harry can’t stop himself from brushing his thumb across it. Malfoy jerks in surprise, eyes snapping open, the smile on his lips dropping instantly and he pinches them together.

“I’m sorry, Draco,” Harry breathes. “I’m sorry.” He moves his hand away, resting it on Draco’s side, swallowing a lump in his throat.

“I know.” Draco doesn’t say it’s okay, that all is forgiven, because it’s not. It can't be. But it’s enough for now. The blonde closes his eyes again, linking his long fingers between Harry’s.

“Goodnight, Harry,” he whispers.

Harry closes his own eyes and lets out a deep sigh.

“Goodnight, Draco.”


	11. How are you still alive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas/Happy Holidays etc, etc I am sending you all love and cheer <3  
> Ettie is amazing, once again, ily.  
> ALSO: go and check out Peter here who is an angel and has done some beautiful fanart for this fic!!  
> (if the link doesn't work, which I bet it doesn't, you can find them @ shrodingergay.tumblr.com)

* * *

 

The next few days are surprisingly peaceful. Harry puts that down mainly to the good weather as Draco seems content to spend the majority of their time in the garden after almost two weeks of being cooped up inside. Sometimes Petunia comes out and does some gardening and Draco flirts shamelessly, shooting little side glances at Harry who tries to suppress snorts of amusement and exasperation.

She never talks to Harry and Harry never talks to her. One sunny afternoon, Draco tries to include Harry in a conversation about the proper care of foxgloves, but one sharp shake of Harry’s head makes him turn back to his aunt and changes the subject to geraniums.

They bicker lightheartedly almost constantly and have one blazing row about Dumbledore that ends with Harry shouting something nasty about Draco’s hand in his death which makes the blonde go pale and viciously slam the door behind him on his way out. He doesn’t talk to Harry for three hours, even when Harry - full of regret after sitting alone and cooling off for half an hour - slinks into the kitchen to find him and mutter a painful apology.

In the end, Harry makes him some tea and sits with him in silence and after a while, Draco makes some snippy remarks about Harry’s character and then his hair and Harry flicks him the V and that is that.

 

* * *

 

“Your bruises are almost gone.”

Harry glances up from where he’s writing a brief reply to a letter from Ron where the main subject is: _‘How are you still alive?’_ and spies Draco giving him a considering look from where he is sitting on a blanket a few feet away.

They’re in the garden again, soaking up the sun. Draco has been watching the bees dive into Petunias colourful arrangements for the last half an hour, a comfortable silence between them as Harry had caught up on his letters.

Harry automatically reaches his free hand up to press against his jaw. “I hadn’t noticed.”

It’s true, he hasn’t. The vague ache in his face and body has diminished into almost nothing by now, the yellowing bruises going unnoticed whenever he looks into the mirror.

Draco nods. He turns back to the flowers.

“I’m glad,” Draco murmurs, quiet enough that it could be excused as a comment made for his ears alone.

Regardless, Harry doesn’t know how to respond to this. A wave of something soft and fond grows within his chest, however, and he fights down a smile as he turns back to his letter.

 

* * *

 

They get into a nightly routine where Draco slips into Harry’s bed as soon as the lights have been turned off. Neither comment on it, which Harry is privately glad about that because it means he doesn’t have to justify why he sleeps so much better surrounded by the other boy’s long limbs.

Sometimes they quietly chat about their day, whispering about Dudley and his awful friends - Draco met Piers briefly and immediately decided he _hated_ him and called him a rat-faced pillock who was dead from the neck up. He told the muggle boy as such with a look of shameless disgust that Harry snorted so loudly that Draco had turned that look towards him instead. That had just made Harry laugh harder.

One night finds the boys murmuring into the darkness of Harry’s room about the Hogwarts houses. Draco is currently complaining with pure incredulity about the fact that Harry apparently can’t remember any of the student's names outside their year.  

“Are you telling me that if you don’t see a person for longer than ten minutes they just get erased from your memory?” Draco scoffs, curled into Harry’s side as the Gryffindor sends defensive huff up at the ceiling.

“Look, I had a lot of stuff going on at the time. I wasn’t in the best mindset to go around trying to memorise every single person's name.”

Draco lets out a hushed snort of laughter that Harry feels against his neck. “It isn’t a case of _trying_ to remember their names, you spent your entire teenage years with these people!”

Harry tries to keep a straight face, enjoying the pompous tone that always used to infuriate him at school. “And I met a lot of other people during that time too, you know, _other_ than students.”

“What - I don’t - you meet new people every day!” Draco says incredulously, and Harry can hear the strain in his voice as he tries to keep his voice down. “That is a normal occurrence! What is _wrong_ with you?”

Harry shrugs, biting back a smile as he slides his free hand under his head. “It must be a Slytherin thing.”

“What, common courtesy?” Draco scoffs.

“The need to make connections wherever you go,” Harry explains with a yawn.

Draco pinches the skin at his waist. “No, you’re just an idiot.”

Harry slaps his hand away with a chuckle. “Okay, it must be a pureblood thing, then.”

“Not everyone in Slytherin is a pureblood, Potter,” Draco drawls, shaking his head.

“I know that!” Harry flicks his index finger at the tip of Draco’s nose, who jerks away with a glare.

“You don’t know anything, apparently,” he grumbles.

Harry rolls his eyes and burrows further into the duvet, tugging it a little towards him where Draco has bunched the majority of it around his long legs. Draco places a hand on his chest in an effort to keep him still - he’s forever complaining that Harry fidgets too much in his sleep. Harry told him last night to bugger off to his own bed then if he is that impossible to sleep next to, but Draco had simply rolled over and closed his eyes without another word.

It’s both a comfort and oddly painful when Draco slides in next to him, not hesitating to throw a lazy arm around Harry’s waist and shift his face close into his neck, not quite touching but puffing little minty exhales against the sensitive skin there. It’s always the same routine; for five minutes Harry’s heart thumps wildly in his chest and he keeps his body very still as he tries very hard to ignore the urge to both move away and pull the other boy closer. Then, he begins to slowly relax as Draco’s breathing evens out and a comforting wave of safety and softness surrounds Harry’s aching limbs. This happens quicker if they talk. Talking is a good distraction.

Draco never seems too bothered by their close proximity, wrapping long fingers around Harry’s arm or sliding a leg between Harry’s own. The first time he did that Harry nearly had a heart attack. Maybe Draco is just used to sharing a bed with another and this is all perfectly normal. Harry never has. Harry’s barely even _hugged_ more than a handful of people in his whole life so what does _he_ know about the normalcy that is physical affection?

And it’s strange because once morning breaks, and they get up and dressed, the little moments of intimacy are lost and they don’t ever touch each other again until the next night when the cycle starts again. Sometimes Draco’s fingers brush over Harry’s when he passes over the salt, or Harry slaps his arm when Draco says something nasty, but that’s about it.

Draco wiggles around for a bit and then stills with a little sigh, the usual indication that he’s settling in to sleep.

“I was supposed to be in Slytherin,” Harry mutters softly, not yet ready to sleep.

As he expected, Draco immediately snaps his eyes open and half raises himself up onto his elbow, staring down at Harry with a look of disbelief. “I beg your pardon?”

Harry adopts a casual expression, blinking slowly up at Draco’s hovering face, cheekbones sharper than ever as the shadows of the room cling to his features. Harry remembers the surprising softness of the skin when he had run his fingertips across them, down them, down to-

Harry catches himself staring at Draco’s lips and clears his throat, flicking his gaze quickly to Draco’s eyes again where the pale irises are unusually dark, contrasting with his fair skin. “Yeah, the sorting hat wanted to put me in Slytherin at first.”

Draco licks briefly at his bottom lip and Harry’s eyes _burn_ with the effort to not flick them down again to watch. Draco raises an eyebrow and gives him a look like he doesn’t believe a word. “Why didn’t it, then?” he demands.

“I asked it not to.”

Draco huffs a laugh as if this is ridiculous. _“Why?”_

“Mainly because of you.” Harry raises accusing eyebrows at him, grinning softly as he remembers that day in Madam Malkin's when he had met that pompous, arrogant blonde eleven-year-old.

 _“Excuse me?”_ Draco demands in an offended tone, his own eyebrows so high they’re almost touching his hairline.

Harry raises his left arm to rest under his head along with the other one, smirking up at him. “Well, you were the first person my age I met in the wizarding world and you were a massive dickhead so…”

“I was not!” Draco cries, jabbing a sharp finger into Harry’s ribcage.

“Ow! Will you stop doing that? And yes you were, you said horrible things about Hagrid!” Harry glares, shoving at the arm holding up Draco’s head and his blonde hair flies across Harry’s face as his head falls down from its perch.

Draco rolls towards him, pushing Harry’s shoulders down into the mattress and blowing upwards to flick his hair out of his eyes, eyes narrowed in ignition and mischief.  “Well, Hagrid _is-”_

“You shut your mouth before I make you,” Harry growls, hands grabbing at Draco’s hips.

Draco blinks, tonguing an incisor and Harry’s brain finally catches up and he notices their position. Draco sits straddled across Harry’s waist, fingers digging painfully into his shoulders. Harry’s breath hitches and Draco’s does the same and _oh god, oh god_ Draco _shifts_ slightly and Harry swallows hard.

Draco’s eyes are wide and that _fucking tongue_ darts out to wet his lips again and Harry almosts hates him. “I was really the first person you met?” Draco whispers, leaning forward slightly, a stuttered exhale tickling the skin of Harry’s face.

Harry is holding himself so still that his stomach muscles ache. He tries to relax, tries to exude an air of ease that he’s fairly confident is impossible at this point. As if waiting for this moment of weakness, Harry finds his hands sliding down from Draco’s hips to his pyjama-clad thighs, firm and strong under his touch. Draco’s eyes go hooded.

It takes Harry a moment to register what the other boy has said and he forces out a strangled laugh. _“Our age._ Don’t let it go to your head.” It comes out rough and breathy and Harry has never heard himself sound like _that_ before.

Draco closes his eyes, smirking, and tilts his head back, exposing his long pale neck. _“I was the first wizard Harry Potter met,”_ he breathes with exaggerated bliss.

 _“Our age,”_ Harry repeats, chuckling genuinely now at the display above him. He digs his fingers into the muscles of Draco’s thighs spitefully.

Draco opens his eyes and sends that smirk down at Harry, eyes bright and face angular, his teeth straight and white and skin smooth and pale and Harry is hit with a thought saying _god, he’s so beautiful._

That is the thought that panics Harry the most. Not the way his body is slowly reacting to their position, the other boy’s heavy weight on top of him. Not that his hands can’t stop stroking at the soft material on Draco’s thighs. Not the way the other boy is staring down at him with a gaze so full of heat Harry can almost _feel it._

No. Harry can admit to himself now that he’s always found Draco attractive in an absent sort of way that he never before gave much thought. He’s all sharp angles and soft edges, piercing intelligent eyes that crinkle at the edges when he’s trying not to smile. Harry has spent nearly seven years glaring at him across classrooms and hallways and the great hall and he’s _noticed_ these things but has never found them endearing until right at this moment and feels suddenly terrified.

Harry feels his smile drop, too fast to be natural and Draco’s eyes follow the movement. He picks up on the shift of mood immediately and his face shutters and he swallows, rolling off Harry and settling beside him in silence.

Harry doesn’t know what to say so he doesn’t even try. He turns his head to look at the profile of the other boy, who is staring up at the ceiling with his jaw clenched.

Not wanting this to turn another situation where Draco starts sulking and doesn’t speak to him for two days, Harry takes a deep breath and rolls over, curling his body into the blonde’s just like Draco does to him every night. Draco holds himself very still, not making any move to acknowledge him.

Harry sighs. He reaches down with one hand and rests it on Draco’s stomach next to his own pale hand and waits.

A beat. Nothing.

Harry edges his thumb out and strokes a slow line down the outside of Draco’s hand. Only once. He waits again.

Draco turns to look at him, face unimpressed. He clearly knows what Harry is trying to do. A silent apology. Harry grins at him, wide and toothy and Draco rolls his eyes and turns away but Harry can see his face soften.

A moment later, Harry feels Draco’s pinky finger stroke his hand back and he smiles to himself.

 

* * *

 

It’s early afternoon the next day when Draco gets another letter from Remus, as per, and he reads it in silence on his bed, as per, and then he screws up the parchment and throws it into his trunk and leaves the room, slamming the door behind him. Not as per.

Harry stares at the fading paint on the door, blinking in surprise.

After about thirty seconds, Harry lowers his book and sits up, listening intently for any tell-tell sounds of a Malfoy Tantrum; slamming doors, angry mutterings, stomping feet.

But no. The house is silent.

All three of the Dursley’s are out, which is a blessing on the best of days. Harry hadn’t paid much attention to where they said they were going, only that they would be back later tonight. So he feels pretty safe when he walks out onto the landing and calls loudly, “Draco?”

There’s no response.

Harry frowns, pads over to Dudley’s room and peeks inside. Empty. Same as the bathroom and the bedroom his aunt and uncle share that Harry can only recall entering a couple of times at most.

“Draco-o?” Harry sings, keeping his voice purposefully light as he makes his way down the stairs. “You okay?” He peers into the living room and it’s also empty.

“You’re kinda freaking me out a little here,” Harry laughs nervously, stepping into the vacant kitchen.

Harry stands with his hands on his hips, staring around the room. Did Draco _leave?_ The thought is both terrifying and absurd. Draco couldn’t even go to the park that _one time_ without flying off the handle when a car backfired.

Besides, what on earth could Remus have said in a letter to make him storm off like that? It’s probably something ridiculous like _‘Sorry, Mr Malfoy, but no, I can’t order you some moss green fresh-off-the-rack robes right now. I’m afraid I am a little busy.’_ Draco was probably sulking in a dark corner somewhere and would soon get bored and come and find Harry for some attention.

_A dark corner somewhere._

Harry freezes. A horrible thought pops into his head and his chest seizes up tight. He twists on his heel and dives out of the kitchen and down the hall. He stumbles to a stop.

He’s staring down at the tiny cupboard door under the stairs - and god, it really is _small -_ and he can feel his heart beating in his throat. He tries to swallow down the increased rhythm as he reaches out with one hand for the little golden knob. It’s been so long since he’s even allowed himself to _look_ at the fucking _door_ let alone open it and peek inside. His fingers wrap around the metal and he sucks in a deep breath, then yanks open the door as quickly as possible.

It’s dark and dusty and Harry can see an old vacuum and that’s about it. No sulking blondes here.

Harry lets out a sigh of relief, beginning to turn away. Something catches the corner of his eye, however, and he looks back into the small space again.

There. On the small shelf Harry used to rest his head under, is a tiny statue of a knight riding a faded white horse into battle. Harry is flooded with memories, finding the thing on the pavement whilst walking home alone from school one day. Taking it into his cupboard like a hidden treasure and galloping it around the tiny space, trying not to tap its metal hooves too loudly in case it drew his uncle’s attention.

All those years of fear and hurt and look at him now. _Still full of fear and hurt,_ comes a sarcastic reply in his head and Harry almost laughs, feeling stretched thin.

He reaches his hand out to pick up the toy and finds himself freezing about a foot away. He frowns at his still outstretched arm, feeling like he’s been put under a body-bind but only from the neck-down. He wiggles his fingers.

Okay. So no curses then.

Harry tries again, reaching for the small toy but his feet won’t move, won’t take the one step needed to guide him into the small space and claim his prize. Harry feels a lick of irritation and scowls down at his feet, _willing_ them to move and then they do and Harry is ducking into the cupboard and dust is filling his nose along with a musty smell that he thought he had forgotten and _oh._

 _Oh, now he gets it._ Harry can hear shallow panicked breathing, has been for the last two minutes and _oh right that’s me._ His hands are freezing and his vision is tunnelling and his chest is tightening and he can’t suck in enough _breath oh fuck what is happening?_

Harry reaches out blindly, his hand slaps against the wall and it’s so much closer than he thought it would be and that’s even _worse._ Suddenly he’s on his knees and he can’t move, he’s utterly frozen and the door is closing behind him, he swears it, he just saw it move from the corner of his eye and-

“What are you doing?”

The voice restarts Harry like an electrical current and he jumps, head smashing against the low ceiling. His vision bursts with light and colour and he grabs the tiny figurine and stumbles out of the cupboard, slamming the door shut behind him and taking in a deep breath of air. It feels wonderful. He stands up, eyes taking a little moment to focus and he finds himself staring up at Draco who is pale and looking at him in concern.

“Are you okay?” Draco asks, reaching out a hand to steady him.

“I’m fine!” Harry chirps, smiling widely and he has a feeling it might look a little manic considering Draco’s wary expression. He tries to soften it but thinks it must come out more of a grimace than anything else.

“Sure?” Draco murmurs, eyebrows knitted together. His eyes flick over to the cupboard door. “What were you doing in there?”

“Getting this,” Harry explains quickly, still trying to catch his breath, and holds out the small knight and his horse.

Draco takes it from him with delicate fingers, squinting at the tiny face. His pale eyes glance up at Harry’s face. He gives him a sceptical look, eyes travelling down to take in Harry’s dusty clothes. “And you had to battle a basilisk for it?”

Harry rolls his eyes, heart now thankfully beating a relatively normal rhythm and he snatches the toy back. “Something like that.”

“Why do-” Draco begins with a frown and Harry suddenly remembers exactly _why_ he went looking in the cupboard in the first place.

“Where were you? I was looking for you,” he interrupts with a scowl at Draco, still feeling a bit wobbly and kind of blaming _him_ for that.

Draco looks at the cupboard door again with suspicious eyes, raising one eyebrow. “In there?”

“Don’t be a twat,” Harry snaps, can feel a headache looming.

Draco rounds on him, takes Harry’s scowl and raises it to a full-on glare. “I was in the garden, of course, where else?” He spins on his heel and heads back that way.

Harry frowns after him for a moment, before realising he had been looking for Draco because the other boy quite obviously wasn’t okay. It’s not Draco’s fault Harry went into his - _the -_ cupboard and had a...a what? Massive, childish freakout?

Yeah, sounds about right.

Harry aims a kick at the small door, causing the hinges to rattle. He pockets his old toy in his jeans and follows Draco outside.

 

* * *

 

Draco doesn’t tell him what was in the letter, he doesn’t even want to talk about it and snaps at Harry when he asks him about it again later on.

It’s all a little tense for the rest of the evening and Harry doesn’t really know how to shift the mood back to that of this morning before Draco had got his letter. Or of the mood from last night. But Harry can’t think about that without turning a deep red and coughing a lot so he tries not to.

It’s a little hard - no pun intended - _not_ to think about it when Draco slides into bed with him that night. Harry is rather surprised by this in general after a day of sitting with a withdrawn Draco who lashed out viciously whenever Harry tried to talk about anything other than the damn weather. It had been frustrating to no end, even though Harry knows _he_ hasn’t done anything to upset the boy. He knows what Draco is like, has seen him when he’s uncomfortable or embarrassed or indignant or livid. It’s best to just wait it out and give him some space.

So when Draco half-lies on top of Harry, pale head resting over his heart, Harry can safely say he hadn’t been expecting it. Still, it doesn’t stop him from wrapping his arms around the other boy and letting out a little sigh.

He opens his mouth to say something, then thinks better of it. He can feel Draco’s fingers clenched tightly into the material of Harry’s t-shirt and he’s breathing a little shallowly, body trembling slightly.

Then it hits Harry like a train and he can’t believe he’s been so _dense._ Draco isn’t annoyed. Draco hasn’t been lashing out and snapping at Harry to _‘Shut up, Potter, just shut up!’_ all day because he’s angry.

No. He’s _scared._

Harry swallows, mind on the letter. He wonders if Draco will talk to him about it tomorrow. New day, new perspective and all that. Although, he has a horrible feeling something has happened to Draco’s mother and if that’s the case then Harry really has no idea what he can do for him. A distraction? Oh, maybe he could take Draco outside - the blonde is a restless ball of manic energy these days. Some fresh air, other than the garden, might do him some good. Stretch his legs, too. That’s _if_ Harry can persuade him that he won’t get murdered.

Hopefully.

Harry decides to ask him tomorrow.

For now, though, he does what he thinks is best during this moment and tightens his arms around the slim body, reaching up one hand to cup the blonde head securely against his chest. And slowly, ever so slowly, he feels Draco relax and drift off.

 

* * *

 

 _Harry is disgusted. He is tired and he is angry and he is_ disgusted.

_“Are you sure?” Harry asks slowly, quietly, staring across into the unwavering black eyes watching him from the armchair opposite. As usual, he gets nothing of significance when he pushes into Severus’ mind, just small snippets of dark corridors, empty rooms and his potion lab._

_“Almost entirely, My Lord,” Severus answers without hesitation, back straight and face blank._

“Almost _entirely, Severus?” Harry sneers, tapping his wand against his leg and taking pleasure in watching the other man’s eyes follow the movement._

_“I overheard McGonagall discussing it with another professor while sharing a luncheon in Hogsmeade,” Severus explains calmly._

_Harry runs his tongue across the sharp edges of his teeth. “I take they did not see you?”_

_Severus quirks his eyebrow very slightly, a small indication of his offence. “Of course not, My Lord.”_

_Harry smirks. He always has found Snape a rather amusing creature. Full of pride and spite and insecurity. The perfect follower._

_“Yet you say you are_ almost _entirely sure?” Harry repeats, impatience licking its way up his spine._   

_Severus picks up on his mood and speaks quickly. “It could be a ruse, speaking about such things in a public place for any wizard or witch to overhear. It’s either that or simple idiocy. And of course, I am no longer in a position to ask.”_

_“You could always go and_ see _if he is there,” Harry muses airily, watching the man’s grey face intently. “Surely with no students around, it would be an easy enough feat.”_

_As expected, Snape pales even further and clenches his jaw. When he speaks, however, his voice is clear and steady. “Do you think that wise, My Lord?”_

_Harry raises one eyebrow. Continues to tap his wand a slow, unrelenting beat._

_“Do you wish it?” Severus rephrases and Harry almost smiles._

_Harry takes a long moment to ponder, reaches out with his free hand to stroke one long finger under Nagini’s chin. He can see Snape following her large hovering face with his eyes and it’s delicious._

_“No. Not yet. But you will be back in Hogwarts soon enough,” Harry smiles, then, his chest fluttering in anticipation for what is to come. “You can take the boy then.”_

_Severus nods once, face impassive, and doesn’t ask what he means. He knows Harry will invite him into his plans when he is ready._

_“If I may, My Lord,” comes a quivering voice and Harry resists the immature urge to roll his eyes. “But what do you plan to do with him, once he is caught?”_

_Harry rolls his head to the side, giving the blonde man a hooded look from where he sits on an uncomfortable-looking wooden chair to his master’s right._

_Lucius looks only marginally better since his escape from Azkaban. His hair and clothes clean, but face unshaven and eyes ringed with dark circles. It’s nice to see him looking so pathetic. Harry still suspects the man had a hand in his son and the blood-traitor's escape._

_Harry allows a slow, cruel smile to part his lips, flashing his sharp teeth. Lucius swallows, leaning back in his chair._

_“Why Lucius, I plan to do to him what he could not do to Dumbledore.”_

_Lucius flinches. “But surely, My Lord, after today-”_

_“Do not whine and grovel, Malfoy, it is unnecessary and unpalatable,” Harry drawls, waving a lazy hand in the man’s direction. Then, quite suddenly, he strikes the hand out, sitting forward and grabbing Malfoy’s chin with pale spidery fingers in a punishing grasp and hisses straight into the man’s face, “Your son took my mark and he took my prisoner and then he fled to The Order. A mere sum of galleons and a name isn’t going to save him.”_

_Lucius is gasping like he can’t breathe and turns pleading eyes to Snape, whose expression hasn’t changed throughout the entire exchange and doesn’t now._

_“Our Lord has spoken, Lucius,” Severus comments mildly._

_Harry jerks the blonde’s face back towards his, sniffing at the stench of fear and desperation rolling off the man in mouthwatering waves._

_“Chin up, Lucius,” Harry mocks softly with a nasty smile, giving the sharp chin a little shake. “Who knows, I may even give the boy a chance to redeem himself. Studious young man, is he not?” Lucius nods jerkily. “I am sure he has collected an accumulation of information during these last few weeks. I am sure I will be able to..._ persuade _him to loosen his tongue…”_

 

* * *

 

Harry snaps his eyes open, biting back a strangled gasp as the pain in his scar throbs along with his rapid heartbeat.

A weight on his chest causes another flare of panic and he jerks, staring down into a white-blonde mess of hair.

Harry stills, trying to regulate his breathing. Draco hasn’t stirred and Harry finds that rather surprising. He usually - from what he’s heard from others - cries out and even imitates Voldemort while in the midst of a vision. But the boy stays still and undisturbed on Harry’s chest, breathing slow and soft.

As Harry watches him, trying to calm down, Draco twitches and tilts his head up in his sleep, brushing his lips against Harry’s neck. Harry twitches away and Draco burrows his face into his shoulder instead, stilling once more.

Harry’s eyes wander upwards towards a point on the ceiling, Draco’s head rising and falling with every deliberately slow breath.

Lucius Malfoy is not in Azkaban. He hasn’t been in Azkaban for _weeks._ If Voldemort’s thoughts are anything to do by, he was even back in his Manor while Draco was still there.

Draco never told Harry. Does The Order know? Harry has no idea, how could he? They don’t tell him anything, they don’t send him any letters. Not even Remus.

Remus sends _Draco_ letters though, doesn’t he.

_Does he?_

Harry thinks back to the vision, Lucius hinting that _something had happened_ today. That _must_ have been what was in the letter Draco got earlier. Why he was in such foul a mood.

Which begs the question; _is it Remus who is writing to Draco at all?_ Or has it been his father this entire time?

Harry feels sick. He looks down at the peaceful face resting on his torso, lips slightly parted. Relaxed and sweet and _a liar._

Harry swallows down panic and fear and stares up at the ceiling again. He can’t move. He looked at Draco’s journal. Saw the notes about Harry’s injuries, about his fucked up relationship with Lucas. He had thought Draco was _concerned._ What a joke. If Harry had continued to flick through the book, who knows what other little notes and comments Draco has jotted down about Harry and his life and habits and _everything._

Harry doesn’t know what to think, what to feel. He is confused and angry and _hurt_ and can’t even fully identify _why_ and that’s even more frustrating. He feels stupid. Then feels stupid for feeling stupid. Draco has been good and easy to get along with and has helped Harry and they’ve shared little moments and trust and _isn’t that even worse?_

Has Draco been playing Harry for a fool? After all, he hasn’t even told Harry _why_ he left yet. Was there a real reason after all? Was it all a lie? A way to get information? Harry remembers with a pang Draco asking Harry where they were likely to end up after Harry’s birthday. Harry hadn’t hesitated to tell him about The Burrow and Grimmauld Place and _fuck._

Harry could be jumping to conclusions, this was _Voldemort’s_ mind after all, full of suspicion and paranoia and mistrust. Constantly believing everyone else is capable of thinking and feeling the same amount of calculated hatred as he does. That _Draco_ is cold enough to lie and manipulate even now. Just like _he_ could, like he _would._

Harry grips the pale body harder, closer, eyes fixated on a speck above him. Draco snuffles into Harry’s skin, letting out a little sigh.

Harry can’t move. He can’t sleep. He doesn’t sleep.

 

* * *

 

Once the morning light pierces through the curtains and tickles Draco’s eyelids, the blonde twitches and blinks his eyes open. He shifts closer and digs his long fingers into Harry’s hair, playing with the curls gently. Harry allows it, eyes burning where they’ve been staring at the same spot on the ceiling for the last few hours. He refuses to allow himself to lean into the touch.

Draco lets his fingers retract after a long, peaceful moment and he sits up, stretching his arms above his head. He glances down at Harry and frowns a little.

“You okay? You look like you’ve hardly slept,” he murmurs softly, placing one hand over his mouth as he lets out a large yawn.

Harry can only imagine how he looks. It probably reflects how he feels. He forces a tired smile. “I’m okay. Had a nightmare is all,” Harry shrugs, Snape’s blank face his mind’s eye as he condemns his former student.

Draco’s expression turns concerned as Harry clenches his jaw. “Why didn’t you wake me?” he asks, resting his palm on Harry’s chest.

Harry shrugs again. “It wasn't that bad.” He sits up and Draco’s hand falls away.

Draco watches him for a long moment before his face shutters into a blank expression and he slides out of the bed and pads out of the room without a word.

As soon as the door clicks shut, Harry dives out from under the covers and across the room. He crouches next to Draco’s trunk and opens it as quietly as possible, hoping there aren’t any boobie traps or curses hidden within. Not knowing how long he’s got, Harry only hesitates for a split second before rummaging inside. Nothing appears to try and attack him so that’s a good sign. Harry’s hand finds Draco’s journal and he pulls it out in relief.

A creak outside the door makes Harry freeze, heart in his throat. Then, a second later, the sound of running water. Draco must be having a shower. That’s good, he could be in there for another half an hour. Harry doesn’t want to risk it though and flicks open the pages, ignoring potion notes and rants about other classmates until he finds what he is looking for.

A smile pile of neatly folded letters sit together in the middle of the journal. Harry grabs the one on the top and pauses.

He feels a little dirty, invading Draco’s privacy like this. But it’s hardly the first time and Draco would probably do the same thing to Harry if the roles were reversed. He probably would have done it on day one.

Plus, Harry needs to _know._

He unfolds the letter, taking care not to rip the delicate parchment with his shaking fingers and skims the note.

Harry was right. It isn’t Remus’ handwriting.

_‘My Darling,_

_Keep safe. Be good. You are strong and you are brave._

_May we never meet until this gruesome time has passed._

_I shall write when I can. Do_ _not _ _write back._

_I love you._

_Your Mother’_

Harry sucks in a breath. He fumbles for the next letter and the next and the next, eyes hardly taking in much at all except the signature and a few hints of information and concern.

_‘I do not know where you are but I pray you are safe.’_

_‘Your father has not been the same since your departure.’_

_‘The house is crawling with vermin. Selfishly I wish you were here with me but it would pain me greater if you were-’_

_‘Your Loving Mother’_

_‘-they are still looking for you, be careful my treasure-’_

_‘Cherish you always,’_

_‘The house elves made_ _Coq au vin this evening and I thought of you-’_

_‘-your Father has publicly disowned you-’_

_‘I am reading a wonderful book that I hope to share with you one day soon-’_

Harry stops. Flicks back to the previous letter. He glances at the date. It was the one Draco received yesterday.

_‘I write with great pain and anger but I must tell you the truth as I have no way of knowing if you have access to The Prophet. Your Father has publicly disowned you. He has not only stripped you from our vaults, but also stripped you from our name._

_He did not discuss this with me and so I fear it was not a decision he made solely alone. Of course, I must censor myself in what I write. But, my darling, as much as you will now rightly share my outrage and agony, understand not all is lost. I have some contacts of my own and you will not go nameless and penniless, I can assure you._

_As much as I am punishing your Father daily, as much as a wife can, I must hesitantly point out that I do believe he did this for your protection. I hope I can show you why one day. I also hope you will forgive him one day, too._

_I hope_ _I_ _will forgive him one day._

_Now, onto more pleasant things-’_

Harry stops reading, sitting back on his heels and staring blankly down at the parchment in his hand. Draco Malfoy is no longer Draco _Malfoy._ He is...what? Harry doesn’t know how it works in the wizarding world when someone gets disowned. He didn’t think it could be so easy, either.

Harry wonders if Draco’s face has dissolved into the fabric of the Black family tree tapestry in Grimmauld Place. He also wonders what Narcissa had meant by _‘vermin’_ in their house, but then again she could just be referring to her hideous husband.

Her hideous husband who is _very much not in Azkaban._

It’s hardly surprising, now, why Draco had reacted the way he did yesterday. Harry can’t really imagine what a blow that must have been for the boy, losing his title and money and everything he has ever known in the space of a second.

Still, as much as he’s glad that the letters are from his Mother and not his _Father,_ Harry still feels a little wrongfooted. It’s similar to when Draco first arrived, when he didn’t trust the blonde as far as he could throw him and that creeping paranoia was a never-ending voice in his ear. Whispering horrible little things-

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Harry startles, spinning around so fast he nearly falls on his arse. He blinks up at Draco, who is standing in the open doorway, skin flushed and damp from the shower but thankfully dressed in his pyjamas. Draco is staring Harry with wide eyes, mouth a little O shape, hand still on the door handle.

“Er-” Harry glances down at the letters in his hands, Draco’s journal not a foot away on the floor beside him.

Draco’s eyes are darting from Harry’s face, to the letters, to his open trunk, his journal, and when they land on Harry’s face again they are dark and furious and he sucks in a livid breath.

“I said, what the _fuck are you doing!?”_


	12. There’s an old lady spreading rumours about us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY NEW YEAR ILY ALL

* * *

 

Harry’s mind has gone infuriatingly blank. A sense of déjà vu overcomes him, the uncomfortable realisation that he’s been here before, except the letters was a Pensieve and the livid Draco before him was a livid Snape. Both times he had acted with idiotic impulsivity and both times he has been caught. The similarity makes Harry flustered and uneasy and he can feel his defensive walls flying up as he tries to battle down a wave of shame with irritated fists.

He sits back on his heels and rearranges his expression into a determined glare. Draco’s eyes narrow impossibly until they are almost slits as Harry directs the look at him, his jaw clenching. Harry grasps onto his righteous anger like a drowning man and stands up in a fluid motion so that he doesn't have to look up at the furious face above him, the letters still clutched tightly in his hand.

“Your Father isn’t in Azkaban,” Harry accuses matter-of-factly, waving the letters in the other boys direct.

Draco goes pale, breathing harshly through his nose. He steps fully into the room and closes the door behind him with a gentleness that is far more ominous than if he had slammed it shut.

 _“How dare you.”_ His voice is soft and emotionless, a contrast to his furious expression and Harry can see the betrayal in his eyes and it makes him bite the inside of his cheek.

“You lied to me,” Harry says softly, subconsciously matching Draco’s tone, standing his ground.

Draco raises one pale hand, fingers trembling slightly. “Give them back,” he demands in a deadly whisper.

Harry jerks the letters away from him, the lack of defence cutting through his chest. “You _lied_ to me!”

 _“Give them back!”_ Draco shouts suddenly, a horrible contrast to his previous tone that makes Harry startle. Annoyed at his own reaction, Harry violently throws the letters towards the boy’s feet and they flutter innocently to the ground.

“There. Pick them up, then,” Harry sneers nastily, gesturing towards the parchments. He can feel the twisted expression on his face and can’t bring himself to care.

Draco doesn’t move, his pride not allowing himself to crouch down and collect his possessions. Instead, he glares at Harry defiantly, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides, face full of utter loathing. It’s an expression Harry hasn’t seen for many days.

“You vile-you slimy, interfering-” Draco spits out between clenched teeth.

 _“Me?”_ Harry interrupts with a bark of humourless laughter, shaking his head in disbelief. “You are such a fucking hypocrite, Malfoy, or have you conveniently forgotten about the time you _spied on me-”_

“You should be thanking me that I did, otherwise that muggle half-wit probably would have knocked the last _two_ remaining brain cells you posses out of your thick skull!” Draco yells, jabbing a finger in Harry’s direction.

Harry slaps the hand away, causing a loud smack of skin on skin to radiate through the room. _“Thanking you!?_ For what? I was fine, it was none of your business!”

Draco is rubbing absently at his hand, smiling patronisingly at him and Harry wants to slap it off his face. “Ah, so apparently he _did_ kill your remaining brain cells. Maybe I should report back to The Order? I am sure they would want to know how their little Golden Boy Hero is as brainless as a bowtruckle.” He shoots Harry a sneer and spins on his heel towards the door.

“And who else, exactly, are you planning to _‘report back to?’”_ Harry asks lowly, breathing harshly through his nose.

Draco freezes. Turns back towards Harry very slowly. He stares at Harry’s expression with slightly parted lips, eyes intense. “What is that supposed to mean?” he murmurs, taking a step closer.

Harry raises his chin. “You know exactly what I mean.”

A strange expression crosses Draco’s face, too quick for Harry to recognise, and then he is grinning and it’s all teeth and wild furious eyes and he takes another two steps forward until they are almost nose to nose. Harry holds his ground, fingers twitching for his wand. Both boys have been keeping their wands in their bedside tables, away from temptation and pure habit. Harry’s inner-Hermione voice distantly registers how right now that is probably a very good thing. He ignores it.

Draco opens his mouth and Harry tenses, a plethora of accusations and defences ready on his tongue. Then Draco closes it again with a snap. Takes a small step backwards, face unreadable. He eyes Harry up and down before meeting his eyes again.

“Do you know what I see when I look at you, Potter?” he asks abruptly, unnervingly mild.

Harry blinks in surprise. He swallows, doesn’t respond other than to raise one challenging eyebrow.

“I see a sad, lonely, little boy. So desperate to prove something, so desperate to be _right_ and _good_ so that maybe- _maybe-_ someone will want him, someone will _love_ him,” Malfoy smirks, casting a lazy gaze around the room. “Because, hell, we sure know you’re not getting that _here-”_

Harry sucks in a breath, rage and hurt twisting nauseatingly in his throat. He digs his nails into the palm of his hands in an attempt to stop his fists flying forward, hissing, _“Shut up, you don’t know anything about me-”_

“Why do you think they had _Lupin_ off all people to bring me here?” Malfoy interrupts with a condescending little laugh. “They knew you wouldn’t be able to say no to him.” He cocks his head to one side, smirking with pitying eyes. “Is he a father-figure? Is that why you couldn’t stand the thought of him writing to me and not you?” Malfoy asks softly.

Harry can taste blood and it takes him a second to realise he is biting down hard on the inside of his cheek. He watches with wild eyes as Malfoy takes the little step into his personal space once more, leaning in close and ghosting a malicious whisper across Harry’s skin, “Were you _jealous?”_

Harry shoves him back hard, stepping away from the boy as he tries to control his breathing, chest tight. Somewhere in his brain, he knows what Malfoy is trying to do, trying to rile him up, distract him from how they got into the situation in the first place. But Harry is too far gone to pay attention to logic. All he can hear is his own heavy breathing as he watches the blonde stumble away from him.

“This has _nothing_ to do with Remus,” Harry spits viciously.

Malfoy regains his footing with infuriating elegance and gives Harry an easy shrug as if they are discussing the weather. “Not entirely, no, but definitely a factor. Now that Black is gone. Now that _Dumbledore_ is gone-”

“Shut up. _You SHUT UP!”_

Harry doesn’t know exactly how it happened but one minute he was standing by Malfoy’s trunk and the next he has the boy pinned to the opposite wall by his throat. Harry can feel his entire body shaking, his fingers twitching where they are wrapped around Malfoy’s neck. Feels the blonde swallow under his palm. He isn’t putting much pressure but, with impressive self-control, he digs his fingertips down into the top of the blonde’s spine to stop the temptation to _squeeze._ Malfoy is grinning at him as if he’s just won a prize, his pale eyes glittering with malice and glee and loathing and Harry wants to fucking cry.  

“Or what? Are you going to hit me?” Malfoy bares his teeth, a horribly twisted smile on his face. He leans his head forward off the wall and breathes, “Are you going to _kiss me?”_

A flash of panic, sharp and painful and Harry quickly drops his hands, stumbles away, a terrifying sting behind his eyes. He clenches his jaw so tight it aches. Harry blinks and glares at Malfoy who smirks back, sucking in deep shudders of breath. “Fuck you,” he snarls.

Malfoy gazes at him blandly from his position by the wall, having made no attempt to move. His eyes are hooded and dark as he runs them down Harry’s body and up again, consideringly. He cocks his head to one side and a strand of pale hair falls across his forehead and into his eye. He blows it lazily away.

“The sad thing is, it isn’t even your fault, not really. This mess you’ve become, this mess of paranoia and anger and righteous entitlement. I don’t know what’s more pathetic, the fact you can’t see it or the fact you _can,”_ Malfoy murmurs, and for the first time since he started this awful tirade, he looks like he really _means it_ and Harry can feel hurt being added into the already-overflowing tornado of emotions swirling inside his chest. He can’t move.

Malfoy looks Harry straight in the eye, face utterly void of any emotion. “And you call _me_ a coward.”

“Get out,” Harry whispers, his voice rising quickly with hysteria, “Get the _fuck out OF MY-”_

The door slams open so hard it bounces off the wall and both boys jump about a foot in the air, turning towards the furious figure of Vernon Dursley in the doorway. His face is purple, a large vein pulsing at his temple.

 _“I am sick to death of all this racket! I will not have you screaming the house down!”_ the man roars furiously. “Both of you get out of my house! _NOW!”_ He makes a sharp movement towards Harry as if to grab him and Harry flinches violently backwards, nerves still taut, vehemently ignoring the way Malfoy’s head snaps towards him.

“Don’t worry, I’m going,” Harry snaps quickly, finding his hands held up in surrender, head bowed as he glares at a point on his uncle's shoulder.

 _“Both of you!”_ Vernon repeats fiercely, jabbing a meaty finger in Malfoy’s direction before turning and storming from the room and muttering hotly under his breath.

The accompanying silence is painfully loud and Harry drops his hands, can’t bring himself to look at the other boy.

“Potter-” Malfoy starts quietly and Harry’s had enough.

He spins away, shoving on his jeans and a t-shirt, grabbing his wand and is flying out of the room and out of the house in under a minute.

 

* * *

 

He ends up at the park, of course. Where else is there to go? Harry’s lived in Surrey nearly all of his life but has never explored much of the area. Was never allowed to. ‘Too many chores, Boy’ turned into, ‘It’s too dangerous, Harry’. For someone who apparently harbours so much power and influence, he lives an incredibly isolated life. Has done even before Hogwarts.

Harry would love to just be able to catch a train into Central London and spend the day exploring, popping in and out of shops, watching the tourists take pictures of street performers, spontaneously book a night in a hotel and find the nearest pub. To stumble back and wake up the next day and do it all over again.

He could as well, he has the money. And that makes it even worse. Knowing you have the means to do something but not being _allowed_ to makes it all the more desirable.

Harry casts a slow eye around the deserted, dingy and dusty park. He could. He could just up and leave right now. He has his wand. He could disguise himself, head to Hogsmeade. Maybe catch the Nightbus. Is there a Daybus? He never asked. He’s sure there must be. He could grab a load of galleons from his vault - he knows for a fact the goblins won’t care or share his whereabouts - exchange them into pounds and just leave.

Not for long, of course. Just a few days. Maybe even until his birthday, right before the Order comes to collect him.

And Malfoy.

Harry groans. Of course. He couldn’t trust Draco not to say anything, the dirty snitch that he is. Hell, he would probably demand to come along, not wanting to be left alone with the Dursleys. Harry thinks back to his vision, on Voldemort’s belief that Draco is staying at Hogwarts. He seems content to let his search for Draco lie, for now, and Harry doubts he would use his precious numbers to continue searching for Draco when he’s so certain he knows exactly where the boy is.

Plus, London is a very big place.

Harry shakes his head, forcibly stopping his attempts at talking himself into something so idiotic and reckless. Besides, does he really want to spend the next two weeks - or even two _days -_ shacked up in a small space with Malfoy _without_ the possibility of his relatives interrupting their attempts at murdering each other? That’s a big, fat No. Harry already feels bad for the hypothetical maid having to clean up all the hypothetical blood.

God, what a mess. Things had been going _well_ between them. Well for _them_ anyway. They still bickered and snapped but it was light and silly and sometimes Harry would glance up from a book he was reading and Draco would snap his head in the other direction with pink cheeks as if he had been watching him. And Harry _liked_ it. Found himself staring right back just as much.

And both have slept soundly and undisturbed from nightmares ever since they started sharing Harry’s bed. And Harry has started to think of those times as the best part of the day, even if he spends the majority of it unconscious. He looks forward to bed, the unspoken way Draco drapes himself around him, that Harry can wrap his arms around the blonde and it isn’t considered weird or awkward like it probably would be during the day.

And now. Harry has fucked it all up by his incessant need to know _everything,_ even if it’s not any of his business. And Draco had reacted the way Draco always does; by manipulating the situation and turning it around on its head with verbal jabs at personal weaknesses. And then Harry had reacted the way Harry always does; by physically lashing out and storming away.

Harry buries his face into his hands, rubbing callused fingertips slowly over his eyelids under his glasses until he can see stars.

After a moment, he can hear the soft padding of feet heading towards him, and for a split-second, Harry thinks it’s Lucas and feels an odd mixture of dread and relief. Then a posh voice calls out mildly;

“I hope you’re not crying because of me.”

Harry scowls into his hands before dropping them, slapping the palms on to the top of his thighs. “I’m not crying,” he loudly grunts, tilting his head a little upwards to show the absence of tears before immediately hating himself for doing so.

Malfoy doesn’t respond and Harry doesn’t look at him, although he feels the slim body plop down on the swing next to him. Harry can see Malfoy’s fancy boots see-sawing on the ground in the corner of his eye, gently pushing himself back and forth.

“I’ve never been on a swing before,” Malfoy comments conversationally after a long moment. “Father said they were too dangerous. Funny that, now, I suppose.”

Harry ignores him, irritated that the boy won’t leave him be but too tired to start another argument by saying so.

“I didn’t lie to you by the way. Just to clarify. I never said he was still in Azkaban,” Malfoy continues, still in that easy, calm voice.  

Harry digs his heels into the ground, kicking up the dirt. “No. You just didn’t say anything at all.”

He hears Malfoy scoff. “What would you have had me say? _‘Oh, just quickly before you sleep, Potter; my Father escaped prison and invited the Dark Lord to come and live with us in my childhood home. Goodnight, then!’_ It’s hardly a topic one can just _bring up.”_

Harry blinks, finally looking up and fixes wide eyes onto the blonde’s profile. “He was living with you?”

Malfoy keeps his eyes on the gates ahead of them, face blank. “You know he was, you read the letters-“

“No, Voldemort. He was living with you?” Harry clarifies, ignoring the other boy’s grimace at the name.

”Indeed,” Malfoy sniffs and a sardonic smile twists at his mouth. “Had all but moved in even before term ended. That made for a rather lovely surprise to come home to, let me tell you.”

Harry can feel his mouth hanging open and closes it quickly before the other boy can take notice. Sure, he has the bastard living in his head every now and then, but to live with him physically in his _house?_ Harry tries to imagine it, then quickly changes his mind. He thinks how Draco had left a few weeks before the school year had finished, all that time….“You lived with him for over a month?”

“And wasn’t that just a bundle of laughs,” Draco snorts in lieu of a confirmation. He looks over at Harry before almost immediately looking away again, licking his lips. Harry waits. “And it wasn’t just him...they were all there. _Are_ there still, I guess. The inner circle. Some lower ranks too, occasionally.” Malfoy shrugs at if this is the most normal thing in the world.  

Harry sucks in a slow breath, frowning at this. “Does The Order know?”

Draco turns to glare at him and Harry almost feels relief at seeing the honest, offended expression. “Of course they know.”

“Is that why you left?” Harry asks, heart thudding.

“Partly.” Draco’s face has shuttered again and both boys look away, lost in thought. Harry wants to push, to ask _why_ but he has a feeling Draco has more to say. So he keeps silent, giving the other boy a chance to collect his thoughts.

What he doesn’t expect, however, is, “I suppose I should apologise. I didn’t mean... everything that I said.” Draco says this a little jerkily, but his voice is clear.

“Yes you did,” Harry retorts, matter-of-fact, looking up.

Draco’s lips twist into a half-smile-half-grimace and he shoots Harry a look from the corner of his eye. “Okay, yes I did. But I probably shouldn’t have said it the way I did.”

Harry gives him an unimpressed look.

Draco’s pale irises glance to the left, thinking. He nods. “After a quick second evaluation, I realise I probably shouldn’t have said it at all.”

Harry fights a smile, ducking his head.

“I panicked. I do that,” Draco murmurs.

“I’ve noticed.” Harry looks up and they smile tentatively at each other. Harry glances back down at his feet, letting out a sigh that makes him feel a lot lighter once it’s drifted past his lips and into the air.

“It’s your turn.”

Harry snaps his head around, seeing Draco staring at him with narrowed eyes. “What?”

“To apologise,” Draco says impatiently, flinging out an indignant hand.

Harry snorts in disbelief. “You didn’t even apologise!”

Draco gasps, hand on heart. _“I did!”_

“No, you said, ‘ _I suppose I should apologise’,_ you never actually said sorry,” Harry explains patiently, watching in amusement as Draco’s eyes roll upwards, visibly replaying their conversation in his head.

Draco’s eyes snap back to Harry’s and he groans. “Ugh, you are such a nitpick. It was _implied.”_

“An implication of an apology is _not_ an apology,” Harry drawls in a poor imitation of Draco’s voice.  

“Oh, fine then! I’m sorry!” Draco snaps, rolling his eyes and turning away. Harry raises his eyebrows and waits. Draco glances at him and sighs. Then says, softer, “I am sorry.” He reaches out one leg and prods Harry’s ankle with the toe of his boot.

Harry prods back. Nods. “Me too. I’m sorry. I shouldn't have...yeah.” He frowns, thinking of how he had Draco pinned by his throat, almost blind with rage. He can’t lose control like that anymore, he’s almost an adult for fuck’s sake. He scares himself when he gets like that. It reminds him of Riddle.

“Mm.” Draco hums and is quiet for a second. Then he suddenly snaps his round and fixes Harry with a scowl, blurting, “Did you really think I was planning to betray you?”

“No,” Harry says without hesitation, mildly surprised at the truth of that statement. He shoots Draco a little half-smile. “I panicked. I do that.”

Draco glares for a second longer before huffing out a short chuckle and turning away, squinting into the sky.

“It’s nice being outside,” he comments mildly after a moment of silence.

“Yeah,” Harry agrees, doesn’t have to point out that they spend the majority of their days outside in the garden. Both boys know it’s not the same.

“She loves you a lot. Your mum,” Harry murmurs, thinking back to the letters.

“Yes,” Draco agrees simply.  

“Are you worried about her?”

“No.”

Harry turns towards him in surprise. Draco smiles knowingly. “She can look after herself just fine.”

“Ha.” Harry doesn’t doubt that for a second. He spends a moment reflecting on what he had read, finally unable to stop the guilt seeping in. He decides Draco deserves to have a little insight after his gross invasion earlier.

“I saw something. Last night,” Harry begins quietly. Draco frowns at him curiously. “It’s why I went through the letters.”

Draco looks confused. “Your nightmare?”

“Sort of. Well, no. I have…” Harry stops. Draco waits, raising an eyebrow expectantly. Harry takes a breath and dives in. “I have visions.”

Draco’s eyes go wide and he flattens his boots on the ground to stop his gentle swinging. “You’re a Seer!?” he cries. “I _knew_ it! I knew there was a reason why you never got into nearly as much trouble at school as you should have!” He glares at Harry as if he’s done him a great wrong.

Harry huffs a surprised laugh and shakes his head. “No. I only see the present. And only from one point of view.”

Draco is frowning again. “I don’t understand.”

“We have a...connection. Me and Voldemort,” Harry explains, speaking quickly to get it over with. “I’m not sure how, or why. But when he feels a strong enough emotion, usually anger, I get sucked into his mind. I _become_ him. No, not literally. But I _am_ him, or like, I can see and hear everything he does. If that makes sense,” he finishes lamely.

Draco is staring at him in a way that Harry expects he had looked when Draco told him about how almost the entire Death Eater army and their leader was currently residing in his house. “Merlin. How utterly-I can’t imagine…” He shakes his head as if ridding himself from an awful mental image and fixes wide eyes on Harry’s face again. “Does he know?”

“Yes,” Harry replies shortly, thinking of Sirius. He shrugs. “But I don’t think he can tell when I’m doing it.”

“Can he see _you?_ You’re angry almost all of the time!” Draco cries in panic, jumping to his feet and looking around wildly as if he’s trying to spot the perfect bush to dive into to get away from Harry’s gaze.

Harry holds up his hands placatingly. “Dumbledore believed he would actively try not to. Said my head would be an ‘uncomfortable place for him to be.’” He lowers his hands slowly as he speaks, his attention turning inwards as an overwhelming sadness settles as he thinks about his old mentor. He hopes the man was right.

“I would imagine so,” Draco has taken his seat again, his voice full of dismay. “All that teenage angst.”

“Love. That’s what he said. That’s what would make him avoid it. Apparently.” Harry shrugs again, a little uncomfortable by that revelation.

“Don’t be crass,” Draco chides and looks pleased when Harry laughs.

When he sobers, Harry continues, can’t bring himself to stop now he’s begun, “Snape was trying to teach me Occlumency to control them-the visions. Did a piss-poor job at it. Makes sense now, I guess. I didn’t learn a damn thing.” He glares down at his feet, kicking up dust and dirt and imagining it being a pasty, oily face.

“Remedial Potions,” Draco breathes in realisation, obviously thinking about all the times during class when Snape had loudly told Harry what time to meet him that night under the guise of extra help.

Harry decides not to point out that Draco had added fuel to that fire, mocking Harry mercilessly about his ‘failing grade’. He glances at the other boy and thinks that Draco might be thinking the same thing, anyway, going by the small wince on his face. “Exactly.”

Draco smoothes out his expression and turns to stare at Harry for a long time, eyes darting from one green eye to the other. Harry wonders what he’s thinking and says nothing. The blonde seems to be contemplating something. Once this has been going on long enough to get eery, Harry blinks and clears his throat, opening his mouth.

“I could teach you,” Draco offers quietly, talking over whatever Harry was going to say that he forgets immediately.

“What?” Harry asks in astonishment, twisting his torso to face the blonde fully.

Draco shrugs casually and looks away. “I might not do a very good job, what with you being such a disaster of a student. But I could give it a good go I suppose.” He sighs dramatically as if this is some great burden he is willing to take on for the good of mankind, but Harry can see the tense line of his shoulders as he waits for Harry’s reply.

“You’re an Occlumens? You know how to do it?” Harry asks, not something he’s really thought about before regarding Draco but also not surprised, in hindsight.

Draco gives him a hooded look. “My Father is Lucius Malfoy. I was living with the Dark Lord. Of course I know how to do it.”

Harry accedes this with a nod, thinking deeply. Could Draco teach him? He doesn’t doubt Draco’s ability to perform the skill himself, but to _teach it?_ He thinks back to all those hideous lessons with Snape, the man tearing through his mind, digging up painful memories about his childhood and scoffing at them. He doesn’t want Draco to see that. He also _definitely_ doesn’t want Draco to see any thoughts he may have had recently either. That could all get extremely embarrassing.

Harry pulls a face. Decides to be honest. “No offence, but I don’t know if I really want you diving around in my memories.”

Draco gives him an odd look. “Who said anything about that? By the time I actually cast the spell, you should have a basic enough grasp to shove me out before I see anything.”

Harry blinks. Then frowns. _Fucking Snape._

Draco is looking at Harry a little warily and Harry shifts his expression into a grateful smile. “Okay. Yeah. Thanks.”

Draco rolls his eyes and looks away, hiding a small smile that Harry spies the tail-end of. “Don’t thank me yet, Potter. You might just be genuinely hopeless.”

Harry secretly agrees but doesn’t say so out loud, obviously.

 

* * *

 

“Can we go back yet?” Draco asks skittishly, peering into a particularly dark alleyway with his hand fingering the wand in his pocket.

Harry grabs his elbow and drags him away. “Not yet.”

They hadn’t stayed in the park for very long. After their little ‘make-up make-up, never ever break-up’ moment, Draco had started to get increasingly nervous and demanded they go back to the house before they got blown up, or something along those lines.

Harry had tried to explain that they couldn’t go back for at least three hours, which was usually the amount of time it took for Vernon to calm down after he kicked Harry out of the house. To his surprise, Draco hadn’t argued with that but had ordered that they move into a more secluded area and to do so _right now_ and Harry hadn't the energy to argue.

Now, Harry doesn’t know any secluded areas other than the playpen where he and Lucas used to... _yeah._ So the boys have found themselves wandering aimlessly around town. Draco isn’t particularly happy, but the constant movement seems to be helping, if only a little bit. And Harry says ‘constant movement’ very lightly, due to the fact that Draco doesn’t seem nervous enough to not stop every two minutes to point out something incredibly mundane and ‘mugglish’ like a junction box or a traffic bollard. Harry wonders if he’s _ever_ been in the Muggle world before but thinks that must be both insane and quite impossible, and so he resigns himself to the fact that the blonde must be simply trying to wind him up.

Suddenly Draco stops - again - and Harry has to close his eyes for a second to stop himself doing something he might later regret.

“Look, Potter. _People!”_

Harry looks over his shoulder, then to the right where Draco is pointing with a large grin. And yes, he’s right; at the end of the road is what looks to be a High Street, shops and cafes dotted on either side as small crowds of people stroll leisurely here and there, enjoying the weekend sun.

Before Harry has time to do anything except take in a breath, Draco has grabbed his hand and is pulling him across the road.

“Be careful!” Harry cries, narrowly avoiding getting clipped by a passing car, which honks angrily at them.

Draco pays him no mind and Harry soon finds himself being dragged into a quaint little pub with warm oak panelling and dark red leather seats that remind him of the Gryffindor common room. Draco stops in the doorway and surveys the area with rather obvious suspicion and Harry rolls his eyes and waits. He notices an old lady giving them an odd look and he sends her an apologetic smile which he hopes reads ‘he’s mad but he’s harmless’. The woman glances down and up again and shoots Harry a toothless smile, winks, then goes back to her paper.

Confused, Harry looks down at himself and then realises he and Draco are still holding hands. He feels his face flush and quickly drops the pale hand, running his own through his hair when Draco turns to look at him.

“All clear, 007?” Harry jokes half-heartedly.

Draco frowns at him. “Excuse me?”

“Never mind,” Harry mutters dismissively. “Can we sit down or are you planning to glare at every single person in here for the remainder of the day?”

Draco huffs and shoves Harry further inside. _“You_ sit down. _I_ will get us drinks.”

“You have money?” Harry asks in surprise, pausing.

Draco looks at him as if he’s said something very amusing. “Of course.” He spins on his heel.

Harry grabs his wrist, halting him. “Wait.” He moves closer and asks quietly, “Do you know what you’re doing?”

Draco leans in too, and with a tone of over-exaggerated conspiracy, hisses, “I _have_ ordered something at a bar before.”

“No, I mean...currency-wise?” Harry scoffs, impatiently.

“Ye-es,” Draco drawls unconvincingly and pulls out of Harry’s grip, swaggering off to the bar. Harry watches him go with a small amount of dread but leaves him to it, finding an empty booth in a dark corner and sliding in. He sits facing the door - as much as he believes the Death Eaters aren't currently out there looking for them, it doesn’t hurt to be a little cautious.  

Harry watches the patrons absently, a small family having lunch, a few elderly men surrounded by clouds of cigarette smoke, a young couple that looks like they’re on their first date if the awkward air is anything to go by.

Draco slides in opposite, plonking a pint glass in front of him. Harry blinks down at it in surprise.

“How did you get beer?”

Draco gives him a smug look and holds up a plastic card between his middle and index finger. Harry squints at it. Draco’s pointy little face smirks back at him, right next to an inaccurate date of birth.

“You have a fake ID? Where did you get that?” Harry demands in astonishment, voice low.

“It’s not fake, it’s magical,” Draco sniffs, as if that makes all the difference, and takes a delicate sip from his glass. He pulls a face. “It’s no Firewhiskey, but it will do.” He takes another sip.

Harry takes a swig himself and shrugs. Not bad. Once or twice, he had stayed up with Sirius in Grimmauld Place chatting and the man had let Harry try the odd alcoholic beverages he was drinking. Never beer though.  “Where did you get it?” he asks again, nodding at the card as Draco slides it back into his wallet.

“I made it,” he replies proudly, puffing out his chest in a way that resembles a peacock.

Harry huffs an incredulous laugh. “When?”

“Fourth year? Fifth year? I forget,” Draco shrugs casually, taking another mouthful of beer and Harry knows for a fact _-_ going by the twinkling in his pale eyes - that the blonde knows the exact date and time he made the damn thing.

Harry shakes his head, about to ask just how the card is supposedly magical but decides not to push the subject, allowing Draco this little mystery. Plus, he knows Draco will want him to ask and Harry doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction. So, he sits back and spends a moment imagining Draco leading his little Slytherin crew into The Three Broomsticks, all grinning mischievously as they pull out their fake ID’s - well, all but Crabbe and Goyle who probably hadn’t been asked for ID since third year. Before being immediately turned away anyway due to the fact that Madam Rosmerta knows exactly who they all are.

Still. Shameless criminals from birth, the lot of them.

They’re two pints in when Draco stops spinning around in his chair everytime the door opens. By three pints in, both boys have silly smiles on their faces even though they aren’t talking about anything particularly funny. When Harry gets up to use the loo after the fourth, he stumbles a little even though he doesn’t feel all that dizzy, and Draco has the clever idea to order food.

In hindsight, downing four pints on an empty stomach in forty minutes probably wasn’t the best idea. Still, it’s probably the most ‘teenage’ thing Harry has done...ever since he became a teenager, really. And they _have_ both had a very stressful few weeks.

“Another pint while we wait?” Harry asks cheerfully when he slides back into his seat, rather happy with the outcome of his indecision for once.

Draco tilts his empty glass in a mock salute and heads over to the bar. If they weren't spending so much money, Harry would have wondered why the barman was so content on serving two - quite obviously in Harry’s opinion - underage teens. Or at least why he hasn’t come over once to check Harry’s ID.

Harry rests his cheek on one hand, eyes drifting over to Draco who stands by the bar, chatting away at the barman who is laughing at whatever he is saying. Maybe that’s why he hasn’t come over, Harry thinks as Draco gesticulates wildly, because Draco has charmed him the way he charmed Petunia. He really is very good at that. He’s good at many things, to be honest. He’s good at Charms and Potions and Quidditch. He’s _very_ good at wearing those tight black jeans. Harry wonders if he would be good at kissing, too. Probably. He’s probably had heaps of practice.

“You’re charming,” Harry finds himself saying when Draco comes back.

The blonde pauses as he slides Harry’s beer towards him, shooting him raised eyebrows. “You’re drunk,” he concludes, pulling the pint back towards him.

“No, I’m not,” Harry scoffs, reaching out and grabbing the glass for himself. Draco lets him take it. “How do you do it? My aunt and uncle adore you, that _barman_ adores you-”

“Your aunt has a weakness for flattery, your uncle just kicked us _both_ out of his house if you remember, and the only similarity he shares with the barman is that they both love my money,” Draco interrupts with a hooded look. He smiles lazily when Harry snorts.

“You must get lessons though, you know, like how politicians speak. You must all get taught it from infancy,” Harry insists, blinking slowly.

Draco’s smile becomes lopsided and he raises one eyebrow. _“‘Must all’?_ Who is _‘all’?”_

“All you Slytherins,” Harry explains, waving his hand around carelessly.

“Oh, I see. And you think Crabbe and Goyle had these lessons, too?” Draco smirks, taking a swig from his glass.

“Huh…Well, maybe they weren't allowed to join because you have to be able to read,” Harry theories sensibly.

Draco laughs, his eyes wrinkling at the corners and his nose scrunching up at the top of the bridge. He hair falls into his eyes and Harry’s fingers twitch, wanting to reach out and brush it away. Draco catches him staring and Harry nearly chokes as he gulps down a panicked mouthful of lager, quickly looking away.

Their food arrives just then, thankfully, and Harry stuffs a handful of chips into his mouth. Draco gives him a disgusted look and picks up his cutlery, inspecting the silver with a shrewd eye.

“Thanks...for all this. I’ll pay you back when we get home,” Harry murmurs half an hour later with a fair amount of awkwardness and notably more sobriety - never having got over his discomfort at anything that could be deemed as charity, even now with piles and piles of gold on his vault.

Draco waves this away, smiling prettily at a waitress as she collects their plates and empty glasses. “It’s no trouble, I have plenty.”

“Yeah but…” Harry clears his throat. “You might need it.”

Draco freezes and doesn’t look at him, eyes drifting slowly over the other occupants around them. “Why would I need it?” he asks, monotone.

Harry chews at his bottom lip for a moment, then leans in and lowers his voice. “I read-I saw what your Mum said. In the letter. About your Dad cut-”

“He is not. My Father,” Draco states jerkily, his face utterly impassive.

Harry swallows and looks down, nervously running his fingertip around the rim of his glass to give his hands something to do.

“I’m sorry-” Harry begins quietly.

“You already apologised,” Draco interrupts shortly, still not looking at him.

“No, I--I mean yeah I am sorry for looking, of course I am, but also-I’m, er...I’m sorry that happened. As well,” Harry stumbles out eventually, finishing with a wince.

Draco doesn’t respond, his expression doesn’t change and he still doesn’t look over. Harry can see the muscles in his jaw flexing. Draco opens his mouth. Closes it again.

Harry waits a bit longer until it’s clear Draco isn’t going to speak and murmurs, “If you need some...help, or anything. I just-I mean I have a lot of…” he trails off with a grimace, noting how Draco has tensed up. “I can help, is all. If you ever need it,” he rushes out lamely.

Draco - finally - turns to look at him and his expression makes Harry kind of wish he would look away again. Burning eyes of outrage and his lips pinched together so tight they’ve turned white. Harry internally kicks himself as he waits for death; didn’t he _just_ think about how uncomfortable he felt with anyone thinking him a charity case? And he can say with a fair amount of confidence that Draco’s pride is _far_ more prominent than his own.

“I don’t need your-I don’t _want your_ -” Draco begins in a snarl, leaning across the table and causing Harry to back quickly away, holding his hands up in surrender. Draco continues, voice rising with every word. “You-I am not some _fix_ to feed your ever-growing ego and ridiculous hero complex, I don’t need _saving,_ I don’t need your _endless supply of gold,_ _I don’t need-”_

“Okay!” Harry interrupts loudly, aware of a few pairs of eyes watching them in curiously. Also aware that they could very easily find themselves in a repeat of the scene earlier if he allows Draco to continue down a personal route.

 _“-anything from you!”_ Draco finishes in a shout. Then everything is deathly quiet. Draco glares hard at Harry for a second longer before his eyes shift to the right and he notices the amount of people staring at them. He sucks in a deep breath, closes his eyes, and lets it out in a rush while flopping backwards into his chair, suddenly looking very tired.

A collective sigh of relief is heard from Harry and the other patrons, and Harry gives the blonde a moment to collect himself. He takes a gulp of beer and looks away to give an illusion of privacy as Draco rubs his hands over his face. He notices the old woman from when they had arrived, tilting her chair precariously towards a man on another table and very deliberately mouthing _‘a lover’s tiff’_ with a wise nod. Harry rolls his eyes as the man looks over at their table with raised eyebrows.

“There’s an old lady spreading rumours about us,” Harry comments mildly, narrowing his eyes when the woman glances over and winks at him for the second time today.

Draco lets out a rather hysterical bark of laughter into his palms before raising his head enough to stare at Harry over his fingers. “What?”

“Nothing. Have you calmed down?” Harry takes a casual sip of beer.

Draco drops his hands completely with a sigh and looks rather worse for wear. “Yes.” He shoots Harry a vaguely apologetic look and Harry knows that’s the best he’s going to get.

“Good.”

Draco nods and picks up his own glass, pouring a generous amount into his mouth.

“So, what do I call you when I’m annoyed at you now you’re no longer a Malfoy?” Harry asks, nonchalant as can be, before bursting into laughter when Draco chokes on his beer and sprays it all over the table.

“Too soon?”

“Too soon, you dickhead!”


	13. 'It was important and I fucked up'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay guys - thank you for all your love, thank you Ettie for having the patience to read over this chapter continuously for three months while I tried to get it right lmao <3

* * *

 

After they consume their body weight in beer and chips, Harry suggests a stroll around the high street. Admittedly, this is because he’s starting to feel quite pissed by this point and if they don’t leave now then he fears they never will. Plus, he recognises that it’ll only be a matter of time until one of them - Draco - causes another scene by taking an innocent-enough comment personally and starts throwing things.

Or, one of them causes a scene by throwing up all over their table.

Harry certainly doesn’t _feel_ sick, but he doesn’t make a habit of drinking excessively so isn’t all that familiar with his limit. Draco, on the other hand, Harry rather suspects does indeed know his limits but has decided to ignore them entirely. Not that it’s easy to tell.

“Do you drink a lot?” Harry asks as they make their way slowly past a bakery. Draco is absently running the fingertips of his left hand across every surface as they walk, snagging on leaves and leaving little smear marks on shop windows. Harry finds it annoyingly endearing.

“Are you asking me if I’m an alcoholic?” Draco drawls, eyes observing every passerby in a way that seems more born from habit than paranoia.

Harry huffs a laugh. “No. Just, you drank as much-no, actually, you drank _more_ than me but…I don’t know, you seem fine?” The fresh air is helping. The clouded corners of Harry’s vision are slowly sharpening along with his clouded mind, which he is pleased about. He hopes the warm, content feeling washing over him like waves lingers though.

Draco smartly side-steps something questionable on the floor with a look of distaste before resuming his finger-tracing. “Is that a question?” He asks, his tone suggesting his mind is elsewhere.

“I-yes?” Harry shrugs. When Draco doesn’t reply for a minute, he lightly knocks his shoulder against the blonde’s to get his attention.

Draco blinks and glances up at him, before almost immediately looking away with an impatient huff and saying in a rush, “No, I don’t drink a lot, I just drink more than _you_ and know how to hide it better.”

Harry stares at Draco’s profile, eyes travelling across his sharp cheekbone, pale lashes, the soft pout of his lips. He swallows. “So you’re drunk?”

Suddenly, Draco stops walking and turns fully towards him. “Why?” he demands flatly.

Harry stumbles to a stop, blinking at the direct question and even more direct expression on Draco’s face. “Huh?”

“Why are you asking me?” Draco asks bluntly.

It’s a straightforward enough query, but it sends Harry’s mind into a tizzy and he stutters something incomprehensible, moving out of the way of an approaching woman with a mumbled apology as he realises they’re taking up most of the pavement. He looks back at Draco with a frown once she’s passed. “I dunno,” he mutters eventually, wondering where Draco is going with this.

“Are _you?”_ Draco asks and his tone makes Harry pause.

Draco is looking at Harry oddly, still with that same unwavering directness but there’s something else there too. His eyes are flicking between Harry’s own, left, right, left, right. Harry finds himself taking a small step closer towards him, and when he absently wets his bottom lip, Draco’s eyes travel to his mouth in an instant and stay there.

Harry swallows, can hear the rush of blood in his ears. “I don’t-yeah. A bit. I think,” he murmurs. He finds himself looking at Draco’s mouth too - it is a very lovely mouth when it’s not spitting out vile words - and takes another small step forward. He can feel Draco’s body heat, the low hum of chatter and passing cars dissolves until he can hear nothing but their mingled breathing.

Harry wants to sway forward that tiny necessary amount, wants to lean in and feel Draco’s breath hitch before brushing their lips ever-so-sweetly together like he’s wanted to do for _days._

Before he allows himself the indulgence, something makes Harry glance up quickly to check Draco’s expression and he does a double-take. He’s instantly thankful that he does _\- thankful and panicked -_ when he sees that those pale eyes are no longer resting on his lips, but are instead glaring straight into Harry’s face with a burning intensity that definitely _isn’t_ lust.  

“How're things with girl-Weasley?” Draco spits out viciously and Harry takes a disorientating step backwards, nearly tripping over a pram.

“Sorry!” Harry distractedly apologises to the young dad pushing it, quickly grabbing Draco’s elbow and dragging him to one side to stand at the mouth of an alley. “I-what?” Harry shakes his head, utterly confused.

Draco jerks himself out of Harry’s grip with a violent movement, storming away and further into the alley before crossing his arms as his face twists into a sneer. “Still going strong? I suppose I could always read your letters from her and see for myself, but-oh wait, that’s _you_ I’m confusing myself with.”

Harry opens his mouth to snap out an angry retort before his little brain-Hermione jingles a bell that makes him pause. He lets out his breath slowly and reconsiders. He takes a couple of steps closer to the blonde and, crossing his own arms, he raises his eyebrow and asks with a soft but firm tone, “What’s your problem? I apologised-”

Draco seems determined to rile Harry up, however, and gives Harry a condescending look as he talks over him, “Oh, you _apologised?_ That’s okay then, no harm no foul. Tell me, does she know about the muggle boy you were shagging?” He raises an expectant eyebrow, looking like he’s trying very hard to look smug but finding the expression painful.

Harry rolls his eyes, trying to not lose his temper. “We weren't-”

“Or does it not count as cheating because he’s a boy?” Draco continues relentlessly, giving up on his attempt at smugness and now just looking downright pained.

Harry reaches out both hands and grabs Draco’s biceps, giving him a little shake. “Will you _stop._ I don’t know when you started to give a shit about Ginny _or_ Lucas, but since you suddenly seem so bothered about their emotional wellbeing; Ginny and I broke up when school ended,” he explains in exasperation, nodding when Draco’s eyebrows quirk curiously, shooting Harry a sharp look. Harry tightens his grip for a second before letting go. “More importantly, why are you trying to start another argument?”

Draco is frowning down at his feet, looking every bit like a petulant child. “I’m not,” he snaps.

“Yes, you are.” Harry snorts.

“No, I’m-”

“You’re literally doing it right now!” Harry cries with a laugh of disbelief. He ducks his head, trying to catch Draco’s eye. “What’s wrong? You were fine a minute ago.”

Draco looks up, eyes hooded. “And I’m fine now,” he retorts, monotone, and turns away.

_“My god, you are so exhausting…”_ Harry mutters to himself before quickly reaching out to snatch Draco’s wrist as he makes his way out of the alley. “Draco.”

Draco spins on his heel, expression fierce, and in the next second, Harry finds himself pushed up against the brick wall behind him. He lets out a little gasp as the wind is knocked out of him, hands automatically wrapping around Draco’s forearms where he has his own fingers gripping tightly onto the collar of Harry t-shirt.

Draco looks wild, his hair is falling around his face, eyes wide and burning and Harry wants to both tug him closer and push him away. In a sharp movement, Draco pulls Harry forward before slamming him back against the wall. Harry’s head knocks painfully against the bricks and he hisses.

“Ow, fucking-” Harry begins angrily, trying to pry Draco’s fingers off his shirt.

Draco, however, leans in very close and the rest of whatever Harry was going to say whooshes out of his mouth in a sharp exhale. He stares into those pale eyes, darkened by anger and something else that sends a painful yet euphoric pang from Harry’s throat down to his groin.

Draco’s eyelashes flutter as he looks down at Harry’s mouth, and then a second later he closes them entirely and Harry stays very still, heart thudding, as Draco’s lips part and pause an inch away from Harry’s own.

_“Are you drunk?”_ Draco breathes across Harry’s skin and it takes an embarrassingly long time for the question to really register in Harry’s mind.

He blinks and pulls back slightly to try and read Draco’s face, but his expression is as closed as his eyes and gives nothing away. Harry tries to think, absently aware that this seems to be some sort of test, and his reply will determine whether or not Draco will close the gap between them.

“No,” Harry whispers and thinks that if he still was a few minutes ago he definitely isn’t now. Adrenaline is pulsing through him, overtaking any lingering effects of alcohol, making his fingers tremble and his vision very focused on the very sharp picture of Draco’s sunkissed cheekbones, his pale eyelids, his soft lips.

Then, Draco’s eyes open and widen slightly as if spooked and Harry is about to whisper a frustrated variation of the word _no_ as Draco swallows hard and begins turning away. Before he can utter a syllable, however, Harry finds his hands reaching out a bit desperately and cupping each side of Draco’s face, tugging his head back around to face him. Harry doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t even pause for a breath, and the next second he is pressing his lips firmly to Draco’s.

Immediately; a dizzying rush of satisfaction, of longing and relief, makes Harry feel almost weightless. He sighs into the kiss, it’s really only a press of lips on lips, and notes distractedly that Draco has frozen but he allows himself to linger for a second longer before pulling back and opening his eyes.

Draco is staring at him with such a startled expression that Harry almost laughs. Almost. When Draco’s expression doesn’t change though, Harry swallows and drops his hands from Draco’s face, chewing the inside of his cheek and lowering his eyes to the floor. The silence stretches and Harry shuffles his feet, glancing up hesitantly. Draco is staring at a point over Harry’s shoulder, wide-eyed and mouth slightly parted. As if feeling Harry’s gaze, he blinks and rearranges his expression into something a tad milder and his tongue darts out to swipe across his lower lip. Harry’s eyes compulsively follow the movement and he clears his throat. When Draco still makes no attempt to speak or move, Harry frowns and takes a small step back. Clears his throat again.

Unable to stand the silence any longer, Harry lets out a tiny puff of air. “Well...” he mumbles awkwardly, eyeing Draco a bit warily as the other boy avoids his eye.

“Well,” Draco agrees, sounding a little hoarse and nods slightly, still looking a bit dazed.

Harry’s foot makes contact with a pebble and he kicks it away. At the sound, Draco’s head snaps up and only then seems to notice Harry’s very slow retreat. He suddenly looks very affronted and the expression only increases the growing panic in Harry’s chest.

Harry is about to apologise but then Draco is practically _diving_ at him, fingers gripping again into the collar of Harry’s shirt and pushing his back against the wall in a repeat of their position only a few minutes ago. Except this time, there seems to be nothing holding the blonde back as he crashes his mouth to Harry’s, making the other boy grunt in surprise. It only lasts a second though, and soon Harry’s hands are winding around Draco’s waist, sliding up the strong line of his back in triumph as the blonde presses impossibly closer.

It’s sloppy and perfect and Harry feels almost feverish, he didn’t even realise how desperate he was for this to happen until it did, doesn’t want to ever stop. A fleeting thought, so quiet he knows it can’t hold much weight, whispers _‘hey, so you’re currently kissing Draco Malfoy against a dirty brick wall in a Muggle high street, huh?’_ and Harry smiles into the kiss because _yes he is_ and it’s glorious and a bit terrifying, but mostly glorious.

Draco parts his lips, panting into his mouth and when Harry tentatively strokes his tongue across Draco’s bottom lip, he makes an involuntary _‘ah’_ sound and Harry thinks it’s the most erotic thing he’s ever heard in his life.

Harry’s left-hand travels to Draco’s hip, gripping it tightly as his right reaches up to cup the back of his head. He twists sharply, flipping the blonde around and pressing him against the wall instead, the back of his hand banging against the brick as it cushions Draco’s skull. Draco blinks at him through his lashes, a tiny smile developing at the corner of his mouth for a moment before diving in for another kiss, licking into Harry’s mouth with a determination he possesses in everything he does.  

Harry’s heart feels like it’s going to explode, he doesn’t think he’s ever felt this way before. And when Draco’s long fingers twist themselves into Harry’s hair, tugging at the strands before gently stroking them a second later as if in apology, it isn't lost on Harry how this - their kiss, their both violent and tender touches - reflect everything about them. Harsh and sharp and painful, but equally tender and apologetic and sweet. Contrasting, always. _‘Two sides of the same coin’_ Hermione had once described them. And she was right - well, she’s _always_ right - but Harry had been too offended at the time to really give it much thought.

Draco’s fingers are still playing with the curls at Harry’s nape, dipping down every now and then to massage into the muscles of his neck. Harry lets out a small groan and pulls away for breath, mouthing across Draco’s jaw with little nips and licks that has the other boy sighing and tilting his head to one side, exposing the long line of his neck. Harry takes the hint eagerly, brushing his lips down the velvety expanse and resting at Draco’s fluttering pulse point. He presses a kiss against the skin, the heavy thud-thud-thud of Draco’s heart drumming against his open mouth.

Draco is letting out little pants into Harry’s ear, tiny hitches of breath that makes Harry’s head swim, and wraps one arm around Harry’s shoulders to urge him on, urge him closer. Harry’s tongue flicks past his lips for a quick taste before retreating and giving the point one gentle suck before softly scraping his teeth up the warm skin towards Draco’s ear.

_“God, you have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that,”_ Harry breathes and smiles when he feels Draco shudder in response, murmuring something that sounds suspiciously like _‘shut up’_ before he’s tilting Harry’s jaw upwards for another kiss.

Draco nips at Harry’s bottom lip, a small sharp pain that almost has his knees buckling and Draco seems to sense that because Harry can feel him smirking against his mouth, and who would have thought that he would one day feel that expression he once hated on his skin and find it so damn satisfying?

Then, the sharp pain of teeth pierces through his lip again but this time it bloody well feels like Draco really _has_ pierced his lip because it bloody well _hurts._ Harry pulls back sharply with an indignant _‘Ow!’_ tasting blood.

He tongues at his bleeding lip and looks up to shoot a glare at Draco, who he only now realises has frozen. Frowning, Harry pulls back further and notices Draco’s attention is fixated at the mouth of the alley, eyes wide. Harry follows his gaze and sucks in a surprised breath before letting it out in an embarrassed snigger, hiding his flushing face into Draco’s neck.

Standing at the mouth of the alley, eyebrows raised with a lopsided grin, is none other than the old lady from the pub earlier. Harry glances back up and she winks at him - _again, damn her_ \- before turning and hobbling away.

Draco turns to look at Harry in outraged shock, and Harry can’t stop his grin from widening.

“That old pervert,” Draco breathes in disbelief, staring back to where she has disappeared. “Is she following us?”

Harry had pointed her out to him at one point while still in the pub. He had honestly thought Draco hadn’t been listening at the time.

“I doubt it,” Harry chuckles and reaches up to gently nudge Draco’s face back towards him.

Draco still has a twisted expression of mortification and offence and Harry can’t resist the urge to plant a soft peck onto his lips, effectively melting it away before the reality of what just happened really sets in.

Harry draws his head back and stares at Draco, who seems to catch on to his shifting mood and stares right back, his lips pursing into a hard line while his eyes take on a resigned look that gives him away. Harry hopes he doesn’t look regretful, he certainly doesn’t _feel_ regretful, which is odd because, in theory, he thinks he really ought to. He has no idea what he looks like but gathers it can’t be good because the next second, Draco’s face shutters and he lets out a small shaky sigh that feels nice on Harry’s throbbing mouth and then he’s gently pushing Harry away by his shoulders.

Harry lets him go numbly and steps away, his feet cooperating before his mind can really catch up to the significance of this moment. He watches as Draco turns to the side, effectively hiding his face as he straightens his clothes and hair with almost military precision.

Then, the panic Harry has been anticipating starts to well up in his chest, and it’s almost a relief even though it isn’t at all there for the reason he would have thought. He feels his fingers twitch in the blonde's direction, hesitating only for a second before reaching out fully and catching Draco’s wrist gently in one loose grip.

Draco pauses in his ministrations, he doesn’t look up but he doesn’t pull away either and Harry takes that a good sign and takes a step closer.

“I-” Harry begins before immediately shutting his mouth again. Honestly, he has no idea what to say and is fairly sure that whatever he may stutter out will potentially ruin everything, so for once he suppresses the impulse and stays silent.  

Draco, however, glances up at the sound with expectant eyes that are part chilly, part hopeful and Harry gives up trying to piece together a sentence entirely and simply closes the gap between them in two short steps, tugging the blonde towards him.

Draco’s eyes go a bit wide but he doesn’t resist as Harry wraps his arms around his back, pulling him towards his chest in a warm embrace.

It’s a little stiff - which is rather comical considering what they’ve just been doing - but Harry isn’t used to physical affection, much less initiating it, and going by Draco’s reaction he doesn’t seem to be either. After a few uncomfortable seconds where neither of them moves and Harry starts to feel a bit stupid, Draco’s hands hesitantly rise and slide around Harry’s waist. His fingers tighten into the material of Harry’s shirt, resting his pale cheek against Harry’s darker one and Harry lets out a sigh of relief and content and allows himself to melt into the embrace.

He isn’t sure how long they stand there in that dank dirty alley hugging like a couple of poofters - although, Harry realises that they sort of _are -_ but soon enough, Draco is clearing his throat and pats Harry’s back once before stepping away, his cheeks a little pink.

Harry sniffs, trying to feign nonchalance as he runs a hand through his hair and shuffles his feet a bit, both boys avoiding each other's eyes.

“Is it time to go back yet?” Draco asks as casually as he can, the effect a bit spoiled when his voice breaks a little on the last word. He clears his throat again with an irritated expression.

Harry hides a smile and nods. “If you want.”

 

* * *

 

 The walk home _should_ be awkward, Harry notes, and probably would be if Draco isn’t absolutely convinced that the ‘old pervy pub lady’ is, in fact, a Death Eater in disguise.

“If she was then why didn’t she just kill us then and there in the alley?” Harry argues for the tenth time. “No one was around, we were - ahem - distracted...” his voice drifts off. Draco doesn’t seem uncomfortable by the words, though, and instead shoots him a scowl.

“Use your brain, idiot, they’ve probably been given instructions to _take_ us, not _kill_ us. The Dark Lord-”

Suddenly, Harry remembers something and he interrupts quickly without thinking, “Oh, they’re not looking for you anymore.”

Draco’s words stutter to a stop and he frowns at Harry in disbelief. “What?”

_Shit._ Harry supposes he could have brought this up a little more delicately - and much sooner - but here we are. He licks his lips nervously, wincing as guilt and shame twists in his stomach. So much has happened today, it had completely slipped his mind to mention it. “Yeah, erm. They’re not looking for you. I was going to tell you earlier but-”

“What do you mean they’re not looking for me?” Draco demands, stopping his leisurely stroll to direct the entirety of his baffled and outraged expression to its maximum intensity. Harry fights the urge to shrink away.

“Well, you know that vision I had that I was telling you about? Voldemort thinks you’re in Hogwarts, so, I’m pretty sure he’s called off the search for now,” Harry explains jerkily, trying to give a hopeful smile that almost immediately turns into a grimace.

Draco simply stares at him for a long time like he can’t believe what he’s looking at. Harry shifts from one foot to the other as he waits. Draco shakes his head slowly. “And you were going to tell me this _when?”_ he asks, deathly quiet.

Harry puffs up his cheeks, holding in a breath as he tries to think of a good excuse. After a moment, he gives up and deflates them with a sharp exhale and shrugs lamely. “I forgot?”

_“You forgot!?”_ Draco suddenly shouts, making Harry jump, and he throws his arms in the air before turning and beginning to pace short jerky strides up and down the pavement. “This is-this is-” Harry can hear him muttering to himself before he stops next to Harry and suddenly punching him hard on the arm.

“Oi!” Harry snaps, rubbing at it with a frown, although aware that he probably deserves it.

Draco punches him again, on the other arm.

“Stop!”

“You giant, brainless, fucking, stupid, imbecile, bastard man!” Draco stutters out, landing a punch with every word. It isn't particularly hard, but still, Harry has rather had enough violence for one summer and tries to catch Draco’s wrists.

Draco slithers away like the snake he is but doesn’t try to hit him again, instead he stands there, fists clenched at his sides, breathing heavily and glaring at Harry.

Harry holds his hands up in surrender. “I know, I’m sorry! I should have told you earlier.”

“You should have, yes,” Draco snaps. “Do you have any idea how-how-today- _ugh!”_ He gives up trying to speak and flails around some more that has Harry dodging a pointy wayward elbow. Draco turns to him again with a determined expression, eyebrows pinched together.

“I was scared,” he states, matter-of-fact. His eyes flicker and he blinks, looking angry. “Today. I was scared all day.”

Harry deflates, dropping his arms. He sighs, knows how hard it was for Draco to admit that even if he doesn’t show it. He’s about to say something stupid, about to say _you didn’t_ seem _scared,_ but that’s the point, isn't it? _He doesn’t show it._ And Harry knows all about hiding your fear, hiding any and all emotion when it’s necessary. He knows how if you do it too much, it becomes habit.

He takes a small step forward, and instead says quietly, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Draco scoffs and rolls his eyes but stays silent.

Harry watches his face, his pale eyes glaring at the ground, the house next to them, a passing car.

“I’m sorry,” Harry says again, this time soft and firm and sincere. “I should have told you. It was important and I fucked up. I don’t want you to be scared.”

Draco’s eyes flick towards him quickly before looking away again, he lets out a little huff. “Well, I’m not, so,” he snaps with a jerky shrug, tilting his chin into the air.

Harry suppresses a tiny smile and says casually, _“I_ am.”

Draco turns to look at him again, surprise written across his face.

“Every day,” Harry nods with a wry grin and shrugs with his hands in a way that says _‘but what can ya do?’_

Draco stares at him for a second before letting out a small involuntary snort and shaking his head. He looks away and scans the area, but Harry is pleased to see that his shoulders have relaxed marginally.

“Come on, Potter. Let’s go home in case you’re wrong.” Harry blinks at the word _home_ but can only enjoy it for a second because Draco continues, “After all, if the Dark Lord knows about your connection, he could be feeding you false thoughts.”

Harry stumbles as they walk on, Draco instinctively reaching out to steady him. Harry swallows and forcibly pushes away the nausea and grief and guilt that _those_ memories stir up and ignores the odd look Draco shoots him.

“Maybe,” Harry murmurs and places his hand on the small of Draco’s back, practically pushing him back into the safety of Number Four.

 

* * *

 

 “Oh,” Harry murmurs almost silently to himself as he slides off his jeans and something sharp in his right pocket pokes his thigh. He pauses and reaches into it, pulling out the small figurine of the knight on his horse he had found in his - no, _the -_ cupboard under the stairs the day before.

He stares at it a for a long moment before placing it delicately on his bedside table and quickly changing into his pyjamas.

He hears the shower switch off down the hall and bites his lip in both nerves and anticipation.

Draco had been positively _rude_ at dinner that night. Well, as rude as a Slytherin Pureblood Aristocrat _can_ be. Which is to say that he projected a passive-aggressive sarcasm that Harry is very much used to, but is something that apparently neither his aunt or uncle could pick up on.

By the time they had got back to the house, Vernon was over the scene that morning just as Harry knew he would be. Draco, however, was _not._ Vernon had greeted Draco mildly when they were inside, ignoring Harry completely as the boys had jogged upstairs to their room.

“That’s not normal,” Draco had commented as soon as the door shut, with the finality of someone who had been stewing over something for a long time and had finally reached a conclusion they were confident enough to voice.

“What isn’t?” Harry had asked absently, the poor naive sod, kicking off his trainers.

“That you know precisely when and how long to leave the house for when your uncle is angry with you,” Draco explained as he had stepped over to his bed and collapsed onto it, eyes never leaving Harry’s face.

Harry had paused, ignoring the way his heart did an uncomfortable little jump and glanced curiously up at Draco’s carefully bland expression. “Well yeah, doesn't everyone? Don’t _you?”_ He may be ignorant to the goings on of a normal, loving family household but Harry has long-since suspected that if anyone was going to understand his family dynamic, it would be Draco - whose father had just disowned him for walking away from a terrorist group trying to radicalise him.

However, Draco was shaking his head.

“No. It shows an ingrained, learned-behaviour that stems from recurrence and a sense of self-preservation,” he said haughtily before shooting Harry a hooded look. “I can guess what conclusions you have inevitably drawn but when my Fa-when Lucius was ever angry with me, he would tell me. We would talk about it. It wasn’t pleasant but it certainly never gave me the need to run away.”

This had made Harry straighten his spine in indignation. “I mean, you literally did though.”

Draco rolled his eyes and said mildly, “Don’t be petty, I didn’t leave because of him.”

“I’m not scared of my uncle,” Harry found himself snapping defensively.

Draco sat up on his mattress, his face suddenly serious. “I’m not saying you are. But, Harry, I have been here for over a fortnight. I am not stupid, nor am I blind.”

“What are you trying to say?” Harry demanded in irritation, crossing his arms and trying not to show how uncomfortable the topic was making him.

Draco read Harry’s face for a long moment, eyes flicking over his features with an intensity that caused Harry’s heart to beat even faster. Finally, Draco’s expression cleared and he looked away with a casual shrug. “Just that, I suppose; _I am not stupid, nor am I blind.”_

Harry watched him with a held breath as Draco manoeuvred himself into a more comfortable position before producing a book from under his pillow. He wanted to let it go, he really did, but what Draco had said was circling Harry’s mind and for some reason, he felt the need to point out;

“Ron and _all_ of his siblings know how long it takes for their mum to stop being angry with them. Even the older ones.” Even to his own ears, Harry sounded snooty and triumphant and very much like Draco from first year.

Draco didn’t hesitate, didn’t even look up from his book to murmur distractedly, “I don’t doubt it. Molly Weasley is terrifying.”

Harry had wanted to demand how that was any different to him and his uncle, but to be perfectly honest he knew exactly what Draco was trying to get at and so he kept silent and the subject was dropped.

Harry had then carefully collected all of Draco’s letters from the floor, purposely not looking directly at them in a hope to give some sort of illusion of privacy, which he knew was pretty pointless. He knows he failed at that by the way Draco had simply watched him from his lounging position on his bed with a blank expression, and when Harry gently placed the stack on the end of the mattress by his feet, Draco had reached for them slowly before very deliberately reshuffling them into some sort of order and placing them delicately between the pages of his journal. Which he then chucked into his trunk with a lot less care than he had shown the letters.

After that, silence.

Harry had tried to catch up on some letters he had been neglecting but kept getting distracted every time Draco casually licked the side of his thumb to turn over a page of the book he was reading. And every time he caught a glimpse of the pink tongue, Harry was immediately and intensely reminded how not an hour before, that tongue was inside his own mouth and stroking against his own. And well. How could anyone concentrate on writing a letter to their ex explaining how ‘awful’ it was living with a person they were meant to hate, when in reality they very much _didn’t_ hate said person and, in fact, very much enjoyed snogging them in an alley and would very much like to do it again and preferably sooner rather than later?

Just as Harry was starting to suspect Draco was doing it on purpose, judging by the fact he didn’t really believe anyone - even Hermione - could read an entire page in ten seconds, Dudley had called them down for dinner and Harry had never felt such relief.

And thus began the dinner debacle.   

It had started with Petunia innocently asking Draco how his day had been as she served some salad onto a scowling Dudley’s plate. Draco had smiled across at her and it was not a nice smile. It was the sort of smile he would give Remus during third year, or the smile he would shoot Harry when he was in trouble with Snape; all straight white teeth and cold, dark eyes. Petunia didn’t seem to notice, her eyes focused on her hands as she made sure not to drop lettuce or a chunk of cucumber onto the tabletop.

“Why we had a grand old time, didn’t we Harry?” Draco exclaimed cheerfully. He obviously didn’t expect Harry to respond because he didn’t look at him, nor did he give him a chance to, “Harry showed me around this quaint little town, delightful place. We stopped for a spot of lunch before a healthy jaunt around the sights. The weather has been glorious, wouldn’t you agree?” he finished, his accent so pronounced that Harry thought it must hurt his mouth to over-pronounce every letter like that.

Draco must have felt Harry’s baffled gaze and he flicked his eyes towards him, his expression never changing. Harry knew the unnerving smile wasn’t for him and mouthed, ‘Why are you talking like that?’ to which Draco easily ignored and turned back to Petunia who was rambling on about how the summer heat was doing wonders for her garden.

“Harry planted the majority of the flowers in the garden, isn’t that right?” Draco asked pleasantly, taking a sip of water. Harry turned back towards him quickly, as did the rest of the table with mixed expressions.

Petunia paused, before turning all of her focus onto cutting up her chicken breast. “I suppose he-” she began before getting cut off by her husband’s booming voice.

“He hasn’t worked in our garden for years, I would hardly let him take the credit for Pet’s green thumb!” Vernon chuckled and Harry recognised his ‘I am joking with my colleague’ voice and suppressed the urge to roll his eyes.

“Sorry, who?” Draco asked politely, turning that eerie smile onto Vernon.

Harry almost spat out his water, and after a second of struggling to swallow it, he had jabbed Draco’s ankle with his foot under the table in warning, wondering what on earth he was playing at. Draco ignored him.

Vernon was staring at Draco with wide eyes, obviously just as baffled. “Huh?”

“He-who?” Draco clarified, smiling charmingly.

Vernon glanced at his wife with a frown before looking back at Draco’s unchanging expression. He then looked over at Harry who was watching the proceedings in both fascination and dread.

Vernon jerked his chin in Harry’s direction, still baffled. “Him,” he grunted.

Draco made a show of turning towards Harry in surprise. “Oh!” He exclaimed, giving a self-deprecating laugh. “You mean _Harry._ Forgive me, I got confused for a moment when you-” he broke off with a low gasp, turning to glare at Harry who had reached under the table to dig his fingertips into the nerves on either side of his knee in a harsh pinch.

Harry glared right back, his heart thudding uncomfortably.

Seeming oblivious to the silent argument happening in front of her, Petunia had then started up a conversation about the new Muggle Prime Minister, Vernon eagerly jumping in and asking Draco if his Father had ever ‘made Blair’s acquaintance’ and what he thought about his new ideas.

Draco had declared the man a fool, even though Harry knew he had no idea who Tony Blair was at all, and had seemed disappointed when Vernon had wholeheartedly agreed.    

“We are a conservative household, you see, and…” Harry almost immediately tuned his Uncle out, having heard this tirade many times before.

Draco had listened intently, though, adding little comments and jabs under the guise of good humour and charm, and when everyone had finished eating Harry had almost bolted from the room in relief.

It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy watching Draco verbally pick away at his relative's characters while they smiled in obliviousness, but he knew his uncle and the man’s neurotic mood changes too well and how one tiny change in the tone of your voice has the potential to throw him into deep offence.

And Harry didn’t really fancy the idea of spending the night in the garden if Vernon kicked them out of the house again.

Thankfully, neither Petunia nor Vernon picked up on Draco’s sarcasm and both boys retired for the night, escaping upstairs to the safety of their room.

 

* * *

 

 Draco slides into the room in nothing but a towel and Harry thinks that is utterly unfair.

“I need you to tell me exactly what you saw in that vision,” Draco demands immediately, hands on his narrow hips and it takes a second for Harry to register the question, his eyes too busy following a droplet of water that slides from the hollow of Draco’s throat and down across his chest, his stomach, his navel and disappearing into the white towel covering his-

“Harry.”

Harry blinks and glances up at Draco’s expectant face. He has an expression that seems to read, _‘now is not the time’_ and Harry recounts what he said a second earlier.

“Huh? Oh, erm. Yeah. Yes, of course,” Harry stumbles out, quickly restarting his brain with a couple of nods. “The most recent one?” he asks, just to be sure, watching Draco bend over to rummage through his trunk.

The blonde sends Harry a glare over his shoulder. _“Yes._ The one where it was established I am _sort-of-a-little-bit-safer_ than I was before.”

Harry nods again, not that the other boy can see him as he has turned back around. _He_ would certainly want to know what precisely was said if someone told him they had - accidentally - eavesdropped a conversation discussing his fate and continued survival.

So, he settles crossed legged on his bed and tells Draco about the conversation he had witnessed shared between Voldemort and Snape, the latter recalling how he overheard the other Hogwarts professors discussing how the young Malfoy had taken sanctuary at school.

Draco frowns at this part thoughtfully, slowly shrugging on a grey t-shirt and Harry pauses, waiting for him to comment. When Draco simply shoots him an expectant look, Harry continues, detailing with some amount of hesitation about Lucius’ pathetic plea for his life and the ugly snake-like bastard’s veiled threat to torture Order information out of Draco if he is ever found.

Draco pales a little at this, understandably, but pulls on his pyjama bottoms with steady hands - Harry looking away awkwardly as he does so. He glances back, however, when he hears Draco climbing onto his mattress. The blonde silently nods his thanks before promptly rolling himself up in the duvet like a sausage roll and turning to face the wall.

Harry stares at the back of his pale head for a long time and wonders if telling him was the best idea. _Yes, of course it is._ Draco not only asked, but _needed_ to know. Anyway, Harry rather suspects the information about his Father is what has thrown him the most. It must be dreadfully confusing and painful having a parent turn their back on you while still quietly rooting for you at the same time.

“I’m sorry,” Harry finds himself saying, eyes still on Draco’s unmoving bulge of contained feathers. “I can’t imagine-”

“Don’t.”

Harry bites his bottom lip at the weak protest and sucks in a deep, slow breath.  He doesn’t want Draco to shut him out. Not verbally, not physically, not at all. But if Draco doesn’t want to talk about it...well. Then Draco doesn’t want to talk about it.

Still. He can’t be left to mope all night. Harry knows from experience that that just makes things seem a whole-fucking-lot worse.

“I had a nice time today.”

Draco visibly tenses at the determined admission, before sliding the duvet slowly off his head as Harry was intending him to. He darts grey eyes towards Harry at a quick glance. Turns to stare at the ceiling. Rolls onto his back.

“We could go out more. If you wanted? Explore the area-muggle London and all that. There’s a lot we could do; museums, shops, even a go to the cinema...” Harry rambles with a 50/50 split of hope and nonchalance, not expecting-

“Okay.”

Utterly surprised, Harry blinks. “Okay,” he agrees and watches Draco’s still face for a second longer before letting out a tiny sigh and dragging himself upright.

He heads out into the bathroom to clean up for bed, prodding at his swollen bottom lip when he notices it in the mirror. He can’t help grinning a little at his reflection at the memory of how it came to be.

“Stop smiling,’ he snaps at himself, and his reflection tries to straighten his face only to twitch his lips up into a smile a second later. He shakes his head and reaches for his toothbrush.

When Harry slides back into his room, all the lights are off and instead of waiting a second to allow his eyes to adjust to the gloom, he confidently strides over to where his bed is and promptly trips over something large and heavy and lands with a hard thud onto the ground.

“What the fuck?” Harry hears Draco blurt in surprise over his groan of pain, accompanied by the rustle of bedsheets as he untangles himself and sits up sharply in his bed.

“Ugh,” Harry replies, not really hurt but knowing that his knee is going to be sporting a vibrant bruise come the morning.

“What did you do? Are you okay?” Draco asks, quickly sliding out of his bed and over to Harry’s bedside to switch on the lamp.

“Why is your trunk in the middle of the floor?” Harry moans, rolling onto his back and squinting up at Draco’s concerned frown.

“It isn’t.”

Harry points in the trunk’s vague direction and Draco blinks at it. “Well, it is _now.”_

Harry groans again. Draco’s look of concern turns into a mixture of exasperation and amusement and he crosses his arms, staring down at him.

“Are you hurt?” he asks, matter-of-fact.

“...Possibly.” He isn’t.

“Are you planning to sleep on the floor?”

“Possibly.” He isn’t.

Draco huffs and rolls his eyes, reaching out a hand. “Get up you prat. And people say _I’m_ dramatic.”

“You are,” Harry insists, allowing Draco to heave him upright. He stumbles a little into him as he regains his footing and Draco grips onto his arms to righten him. Grey eyes peer into green, a small frown appearing between his eyebrows.

“Did you hit your head?” Draco asks softly, his expression taking on that look of concern again that has Harry swallowing.

“No,” Harry says faintly, everything feeling suddenly very hushed and delicate; how close they are standing, the dim glow from the lamp casting shadows across their faces and not reaching far enough to hit the dark corners of the room.

“Your-” Draco starts in a whisper, reaching up to brush the pad of his thumb across the tender swell on Harry’s bottom lip. A look of comprehension slides across his face and before Harry can react, he rocks forward and presses the softest kiss - the sweetest silent apology Harry has ever been on the receiving end of - directly onto the injury, pulling back far too early for Harry’s liking.

He doesn’t go too far, though, just enough to look at Harry’s face as he murmurs hesitantly, “I had a nice day too.”

By the way his eyes flick briefly to Harry’s lips, Harry knows he isn’t thinking about their time in the pub, but rather what transpired _after._

“Stop smiling like that, it’s indecent,” Draco scowls, pulling back another inch as Harry’s grin gets wider.

“No.”

“I hate you,” Draco snaps unconvincingly and twists away, diving face-first onto his own bed so Harry can’t see the flush on his cheeks.

“Sure you do,” Harry chuckles, lowering himself onto the edge of his bed and rubbing absently at his aching knee.

Draco doesn’t respond other than to huff pointedly. Harry smiles, sliding between the covers of his bed, pulling the duvet up to his chin and enjoying the warmth surrounding his limbs.

Not warm enough, though.

Harry rolls onto his side, finding himself staring at the back of Draco’s head for the second time that night. He bites the inside of his cheek, wiggling around to get comfortable - and if his bed makes a loud squeaky noise that a certain blonde may find hard to ignore, then, well…

He does it again.

Draco twitches. “What are you doing?”

“Just getting comfortable,” Harry says innocently. Wiggles again.

Draco doesn’t say anything but does shoot a glare at Harry over his shoulder.

“Right-o,” Harry mutters, reaching over to turn off his lamp, “I’m going to sleep now…” He shifts around to settle once more.

Harry can’t see Draco in the darkness now, but can almost _feel_ his eye roll.

“Off to sleep, then,” Harry repeats slowly, accompanied by a large fake yawn.

Nothing.

“Goodnight, Draco,” he says pointedly, shuffling down into his duvet once more.

Finally, Harry hears a loud huff followed by much shifting and waits with bated breath, subtly edging to one side of his mattress.

However, a moment later, silence fills the room and Harry frowns into the darkness.

Then; “Ask me,” comes the low, hushed demand.

“What?”

“Ask me,” Draco says again and Harry can now see his eyes across the room, staring at him, the moonlight glinting off the grey orbs, bright and intense. He doesn’t need to ask what Draco means, but-

_“You’ve_ never asked permission before,” Harry feels the need to point out petulantly.

“Yes, well, it’s different now.”

Harry sucks in a breath. “Is it?”

There’s a moment of silence, then, “Is it not?”

Harry can hear the uncertainty in his voice. Doesn’t want it to be there.

“I...Will you come and sleep with me?” he blurts then immediately goes red. “No! I didn’t-I don’t mean-“

Draco is laughing quietly and it sounds like he might be trying to muffle it into his duvet but is doing a very poor job of it.

“Why, Potter-”

“You know what I mean,” Harry interrupts irritably, face flushed.  

Draco snorts in amusement but immediately slides off his mattress and pads the couple of steps across the room, climbing into Harry’s bed.

Harry waits until he has settled next to him and then fusses with the duvet for a moment, tucking it up under Draco’s chin, who gives him a look but doesn't complain.

Harry smiles and settles himself, throwing a leg over both of Draco’s and snuggling closer.

Draco gives him a beautifully soft look, rolling over to face him and gently reaching up to tuck a curl behind Harry’s ear.

“You’re impossible,” Draco whispers, cupping his cheek, and his tone, his gesture, his expression radiates such fondness that Harry inexplicably finds his throat closing up.

At a loss for words, Harry draws even closer and buries his face into Draco’s neck, closing his eyes and breathing in his scent; of gingerlily mixed with expensive shampoo and something muskier. Something heavier.

Something important.


End file.
